 | Lucasta |  |
A Mock-Song.
Now
Whitehalls 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 Prælates, too, crost,
And all Rome's confin'd to a Cloyster:
He that Tarquin was styl'd,
Our white Land's exil'd,
Yea undefil'd,
Not a Court Ape's lest to confute us:
Then let your Voyces rise high,
As your Colours did fly,
And flour'shing cry,
Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus.
And our Head is our slave,
The bright pearl in his close shell of Oyster;
Now the Miter is lost,
The proud Prælates, too, crost,
And all Rome's confin'd to a Cloyster:
He that Tarquin was styl'd,
Our white Land's exil'd,
Yea undefil'd,
Not a Court Ape's lest to confute us:
34
As your Colours did fly,
And flour'shing cry,
Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus.
2
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.
| Lucasta | |