AN ESSAY Upon the late VICTORY obtained by His Royal Highness the Duke of York, Against the DUTCH, upon Iune 3. 1665.
GOUT! I conjure thee by the powerful Names
Of
CHARLES and
IAMES, and their victorious Fames,
On this great Day set all thy Prisoners free,
(Triumphs command a Goal-Delivery)
Set them all free, leave not a limping Toe
From my
Lord Chancellors to mine below;
Unless thou giv'st us leave this day to dance,
Thou'rt not th' old Loyal Gout, but com'st from
France.
'Tis done, my grief obeys the Sovereign Charms,
I feel a Bonfire in my joints, which warms
And thaws the frozen jelly; I am grown
Twenty years younger; Victory hath done
What puzled Physick: Give the
Dutch a Rout,
Probatum est, 'twill cure an
English Gout.
Come then, put nimble Socks upon my Feet,
They shall be
Skippers to our
Royal Fleet,
Which now returnes in dances on our Seas,
A Conqueror above
Hyperbole's.
A Sea which with
Bucephalus doth scorn
Less than an
Alexander should be born
On her proud Back; but to a Loyal Rein
Yields foaming Mouth, and bends her curled Main:
And conscious that she is too strait a stage
For
Charles to act on, swell'd with Loyal Rage,
Urgeth the
Belgick and the
Gallick shore
To yield more room, Her Master must have more.
Ingratefull Neighbours! 'twas our kinder Isle,
With Her own Bloud, made Your
Geneva Stile
Writ in small Print [Poor States and sore perplext]
Swell to the [
HIGH AND MIGHTY LORDS] in Text;
And can ye be such Snakes to sting that Breast,
Which in Your Winter gave You Warmth and Rest?
Poor
Flemish Frogs, if Your Ambition thirst
To swell to
English Greatness, You will burst.
Could You believe Our Royal Head would fail
To Nod those down who fell before our Tail?
Or could Your
Amsterdam by her commands,
Make
London carry Coals to warm her Hands?
A bold Attempt! Pray practise it no more;
We sav'd our Coals, yet gave you fire good store.
It is enough; The righteous Heavens have now
Judg'd the Grand Quarrel betwixt us and you.
The Sentence is—The Surface must be ours,
But for the bottom of the Sea, 'tis yours:
Thither your
Opdam with some thousands, are
Gone down to take possession of your share.
Methinks I hear great
Triton sound a Call,
And through th' affrighted Ocean summon all
His scaly Regiments, to come and take
Part of that
Feast which
Charles Their King doth make;
Where they may glut Revenge, quit the old score,
And feed on those who fed on them before;
Whom when they have digested, who can find
Whether they're fish, or flesh, or what's their Kind?
Van-God, Van-Ling, Van-Herring will be cry'd
About their Streets; All Fish, so
Dutchified.
Their States may find their
Capers in their Dish,
And meet their
Admirals in Butter'd Fish.
Thus they'l imbody, and encrease their Crew;
A cunning way to make each Dutch-man two.
And on themselves, they now must feed or fast;
Their Herring Trade is brought unto its
Last.
To the KING.
GReat Sir, Belov'd of God and Man, admit
My Loyal zeal to run before my Wit.
This is my Pens miscarriage, not a Birth;
Her haste hath made her bring blind Puppies forth.
My aims in this attempt, are to provoke,
And kindle flames more Noble, by my smoak;
My wisp of Straw may set great Wood on Fire,
And my weak Breath Your Organs may inspire.
Amongst those Flags y' have taken from the Dutch,
Command your
Denham to hang up his Crutch:
He is a man both of his Hands and Feet,
And with great Numbers can Your Navy meet,
His quicker Eye Your Conquest can survey;
His Hand,
York's Temples Crown with flourishing Bay,
Waller (great
Poet and true
Prophet too)
Whose curious Pencil in Rich Colours drew
The Type of this grand Triumph for your view,
(The Fishers (like their Herrings) bleeding new)
With the same Hand shall give the World the sights
Of what it must expect when
England Fights.
That Son and Heir of
Pindars Muse and Fame,
Your modest
Cowley, with Your Breath will flame,
And make those
Belgick Beasts, who live, aspire
To fall Your Sacrifice in his pure Fire.
He shall proclaim Our
IAMES great
Neptune's Wonder.
And, like a
Iove, Fighting in Clouds and Thunder.
Licensed
Iune 16. 1665.
ROGER L'ESTRANGE.
Lindon, Printed by A. Maxwell for Fabian Stedman, at his shop in St. Dunstans Church-yard in Fleetstreet, 1665.