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Richard Lovelace - A Mock Song
Work rating: Medium

                   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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