A Mock Song

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.