A scurvy song! thank God, with each to-morrow,
The Roman empire can give you small sorrow;
For me, I deem I’m wealthier and wiser
For being neither Chancellor nor Kaiser.
Yet even we must have a head to rule us;
Let’s choose a pope in drinking well to school us,
Come, well you know the qualification
That lifts a man to consideration.
Frosch. [sings]
Mount up, lady nightingale,