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.