AN
ESSAY
Upon the late VICTORY obtained by
His Royal Highness the Duke of York,
Against the DUTCH, upon June 3. 1665.
By the Author of Iter Boreale.
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GOUT! I conjure thee by the powerful Names
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Of CHARLES and JAMES, and their victorious
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Fames,
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On this great Day set all thy Prisoners free,
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(Triumphs command a Goal-Delivery)
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Set them all free, leave not a limping Toe
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From my Lord Chancellors to mine below;
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Unless thou givst us leave this day to dance,
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Thourt not th old Loyal Gout, but comst from France.
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Tis done, my grief obeys the Sovereign Charms,
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I feel a Bonfire in my joints, which warms
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And thaws the frozen jelly; I am grown
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Twenty years younger; Victory hath done
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What puzled Physick: Give the Dutch a Rout,
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Probatum est, twill cure an English Gout.
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Come then, put nimble Socks upon my Feet,
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They shall be Skippers to our Royal Fleet,
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Which now returnes in dances on our Seas,
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A Conqueror above Hyperboles.
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A Sea which with Bucephalus doth scorn
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Less than an Alexander should be born
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On her proud Back; but to a Loyal Rein
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Yields foaming Mouth, and bends her curled Main:
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And conscious that she is too strait a stage
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For Charles to act on, swelld with Loyal Rage,
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Urgeth the Belgick and the Gallick shore
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To yield more room, Her Master must have more.
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Ingratefull Neighbours! twas our kinder Isle,
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With Her own Bloud, made Your Geneva Stile
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Writ in small Print [Poor States and sore perplext]
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Swell to the [HIGH AND MIGHTY LORDS] in Text;
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And can ye be such Snakes to sting that Breast,
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Which in Your Winter gave you Warmth and Rest?
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Poor Flemish Frogs, if Your Ambition thirst
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To swell to English Greatness, You will burst.
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Could You believe Our Royal Head would fail
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To Nod those down who fell before our Tail?
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Or could Your Amsterdam by her commands,
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Make London carry Coals to warm her Hands?
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A bold Attempt! Pray practise it no more;
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We savd our Coals, yet gave you fire good store.
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It is enough; The righteous Heavens have now
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Judgd the Grand Quarrel betwixt us and you.
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The Sentence is --- The Surface must be ours,
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But for the bottom of the Sea, tis yours:
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Thither your Opdam with some thousands, are
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Gone down to take possession of your share.
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Methinks I hear great Triton sound a Call,
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And through th affrighted Ocean summon all
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His scaly Regiments, to come and take
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Part of that Feast which Charles Their King doth make;
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Where they may glut Revenge, quit the old score,
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And feed on those who fed on them before;
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Whom when they have digested, who can find
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Whether theyre fish, or flesh, or whats their Kind?
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Van-Cod, Van-Ling, Van-Herring will be cryd
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About their Streets; All Fish, so Dutchified.
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Their States may find their Capers in their Dish,
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And meet their Admirals in Butterd Fish.
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Thus theyl imbody, and encrease their Crew;
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A cunning way to make each Dutch-man two.
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And on themselves, they now must feed or fast;
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Their Herring Trade is brought unto its Last.
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GReat Sir, Belovd of God and Man, admit
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My Loyal zeal to run before my Wit.
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This is my Pens miscarriage, not a Birth;
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Her haste hath made her bring blind Puppies forth.
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My aims in this attempt, are to provoke,
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And kindle flames more Noble, by my smoak;
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My wisp of Straw may set great Wood on Fire,
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And my weak Breath Your Organs may inspire.
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Amongst those Flags y have taken from the Dutch,
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Command your Denham to hang up his Crutch:
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He is a man both of his Hands and Feet,
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And with great Numbers can Your Navy meet,
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His quicker Eye Your Conquest can survey;
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His Hand, Yorks Temples Crown with flourishing Bay,
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Waller (great Poet and true Prophet too)
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Whose curious Pencil in Rich Colours drew
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The Type of this grand Triumph for your view,
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(The Fishers (like their Herrings) bleeding new)
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With the same Hand shall give the World the sights
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Of what it must expect when England Fights.
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That Son and Heir of Pindars Muse and Fame,
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Your modest Cowley, with Your Breath will flame,
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And make those Belgick Beasts, who live, aspire
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To fall Your Sacrifice in his pure Fire.
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He shall proclaim Our JAMES great Neptunes Wonder,
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And, like a Jove, Fighting in Clouds and Thunder.
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