From sweet Sir Arthur’s Knights of the round Table.
From City-Saints whose Anagram is Stains,
From Plots and being choak’d with our own Chains,
From these and ten times more which may ensue,
The Poet prays, Good Lord deliver you.
The City of London’s New Letany.
From Rumps that do Rule against Customes and Laws,
From a fardle of Fancies stil’d a Good Old Cause,
From Wives that have nails which are sharper than claws,