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 Join'D Such Numbers Hand In Hand. I Join'D 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 Damn'D Cromwellian, Knock'D 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.