Or

The city courting their own ruin,
Thank the Parliament twice for their treble undoing.
A street ballad. From a broadside, 1647.


The hierarchy is out of date,
Our monarchy was sick of late,
But now 'tis grown an excellent state:
Oh, God a-mercy, Parliament!

The teachers knew not what to say,
The 'prentices have leave to play,
The people have all forgotten to pray;
Still, God a-mercy, Parliament!

The Roundhead and the Cavalier
Have fought it out almost seven year,
And yet, methinks, they are never the near:
Oh, God, etc.

The gentry are sequester'd all;
Our wives you find at Goldsmith Hall,
For there they meet with the devil and all;
Still, God, etc.