Richard Lovelace (Ричард Лавлейс)

A Mock Song

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. 

1. The Vintage to the Dungeon
2. Lucasta Weeping
3. To Lucasta, From Prison
4. Gratiana Dancing And Singing
5. To Chloe, Courting Her For His Friend

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