Richard Lovelace

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.
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