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.

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.