A Mock Song

Richard Lovelace

                   I.
    Now Whitehall's in the grave,
    And our head is our slave,
The bright pearl in his close shell of oyster;
    Now the miter is lost,
    The proud Praelates, too, crost,
And all Rome's confin'd to a cloister.
    He, that Tarquin was styl'd,
      Our white land's exil'd,
        Yea, undefil'd;
Not a court ape's left to confute us;
    Then let your voyces rise high,
      As your colours did flye,
        And flour'shing cry:
Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus.

                   II.
    Now the sun is unarm'd,
    And the moon by us charm'd,
All the stars dissolv'd to a jelly;
    Now the thighs of the Crown
    And the arms are lopp'd down,
And the body is all but a belly.
    Let the Commons go on,
      The town is our own,
        We'l rule alone:
For the Knights have yielded their spent-gorge;
    And an order is tane
      With HONY SOIT profane,
        Shout forth amain:
For our Dragon hath vanquish'd the St. George.

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