I. <br /> Now Whitehall's in the grave, <br /> And our head is our slave, <br />The bright pearl in his close shell of oyster; <br /> Now the miter is lost, <br /> The proud Praelates, too, crost, <br />And all Rome's confin'd to a cloister. <br /> He, that Tarquin was styl'd, <br /> Our white land's exil'd, <br /> Yea, undefil'd; <br />Not a court ape's left to confute us; <br /> Then let your voyces rise high, <br /> As your colours did flye, <br /> And flour'shing cry: <br />Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus. <br /> <br /> II. <br /> Now the sun is unarm'd, <br /> And the moon by us charm'd, <br />All the stars dissolv'd to a jelly; <br /> Now the thighs of the Crown <br /> And the arms are lopp'd down, <br />And the body is all but a belly. <br /> Let the Commons go on, <br /> The town is our own, <br /> We'l rule alone: <br />For the Knights have yielded their spent-gorge; <br /> And an order is tane <br /> With HONY SOIT profane, <br /> Shout forth amain: <br />For our Dragon hath vanquish'd the St. George.<br /><br />Richard Lovelace<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mock-song/
