A Mock-Song
          By Richard Lovelace

                  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 prelates, too, crossed
          And all Rome's confined to a cloister;
                  He that Tarquin was styled,
                  Our white land's exiled,
                          Yea undefiled,
          Not a court ape's left to confute us;
                  Then let your voices rise high,
                  As your colors did fly,
                          And flourishing cry,
          "Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus."

                  Now the sun is unarmed,
                  And the moon by us charmed,
          All the stars dissolved to a jelly;
                  Now the thighs of the crown
                  And the arms are lopped down,
          And the body is all but a belly;
                  Let the Commons go on,
                  The town is our own,
                          We'll rule alone;
          For the knights have yielded their spent gorge;
                  And an order is ta'en
          With honi soit profane,
                          Shout forth amain,
          For our dragon hath vanquished the St. George.

          1659


          to Works of Richard Lovelace

          Created by Anniina Jokinen on January 16, 1997.