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. <76.1> Cromwell. A FLY CAUGHT IN A COBWEB. Small type of great ones, that do hum Within this whole world's narrow room, That with a busie hollow noise Catch at the people's vainer voice, And with spread sails play with their breath, Whose very hails new christen death. Poor Fly, caught in an airy net, Thy wings have fetter'd now thy feet; Where, like a Lyon in a toyl, Howere thou keep'st a noble coyl, And beat'st thy gen'rous breast, that o're The plains thy fatal buzzes rore, Till thy all-bellyd foe (round elf<77.1>) Hath quarter'd thee within himself. Was it not better once to play I' th' light of a majestick ray, Where, though too neer and bold, the fire Might sindge thy upper down attire, And thou i' th' storm to loose an eye. A wing, or a self-trapping thigh: Yet hadst thou fal'n like him, whose coil Made fishes in the sea to broyl, When now th'ast scap'd the noble flame; Trapp'd basely in a slimy frame, And free of air, thou art become Slave to the spawn of mud and lome? Nor is't enough thy self do's dresse To thy swoln lord a num'rous messe, And by degrees thy thin veins bleed, And piecemeal dost his poyson feed; But now devour'd, art like to be A net spun for thy familie, And, straight expanded in the air, Hang'st for thy issue too a snare. Strange witty death and cruel ill That, killing thee, thou thine dost kill! Like pies, in whose entombed ark All fowl crowd downward to a lark, Thou art thine en'mies' sepulcher, And in thee buriest, too, thine heir. Yet Fates a glory have reserv'd For one so highly hath deserv'd. As the rhinoceros doth dy Under his castle-enemy, As through the cranes trunk throat doth speed, The aspe doth on his feeder feed; Fall yet triumphant in thy woe, Bound with the entrails of thy foe. <77.1> The spider. A FLY ABOUT A GLASSE OF BURNT CLARET. I. Forbear this liquid fire, Fly, It is more fatal then the dry, That singly, but embracing, wounds; And this at once both burns and drowns. II. The salamander, that in heat And flames doth cool his monstrous sweat, Whose fan a glowing cake is said, Of this red furnace is afraid. III. Viewing the ruby-christal shine, Thou tak'st it for heaven-christalline; Anon thou wilt be taught to groan: 'Tis an ascended Acheron. IV. A snow-ball heart in it let fall, And take it out a fire-ball; Ali icy breast in it betray'd Breaks a destructive wild granade.