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1725
Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I
bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet standers-by
may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round,
And yet I firmly
stand my ground:
All over naked I am seen,
And
painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the
land
E'er joined such numbers hand in hand.
I
joined them fairly with a ring;
Nor can our parson
blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are
spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke;
Yet
hypocrite fanatics cry,
I'm but an idol raised on
high;
And once a weaver in our town,
A damned
Cromwellian, knocked me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty
years,
And then the jovial cavaliers
To their old
post restored all three -
I mean the church, the
king, and me.
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