Oxford in mourning, for the loss of the Parliament. Or, London's loud laughter at her late flattering her self with excessive trading. A pleasant new song. Now tapsters, vintners, sales-men, taylors, all open their throats, and for their losses bawl: the Parliament is gone, their hopes now fail, pall'd is the wine, and egar grow the ale: now rooms late let for twenty crowns a week, would let for twelve-pence, but may lodgers seek; London rejoyces who was sad before, and in like coin does pay off Oxfords score. To the tune of, Packington's pound; or, Digby's farewel.