Belgica Caracteristica. OR THE DUTCH CHARACTER. BEING News from Holland. A POEM.  
By John Crouch, Gent.  
The second Impression, Improved.  
LONDON, Printed by Edward Crouch, dwelling on Snow-hill. 1665   

News from Holland.  

WHere are our Mighty Dutch? still Weather-bound?  
Although the Wind has moved the Compass round?  
Are the scared Foxes lurking in their Holes,  
Or working underground, like politic Moles?  
Appear, and open your usurious Bags,  
Pluck up your Breeches, or pull down your Flags.  
Come with your Giant too, you sent of late  
To mince our coin, and magnify your State.  
Is old Trumpets broom (hung up to sweep the Seas)  
Employed to brush off swarms of Belgic fleas?  
Are you asleep? or has our floating Wood  
D●●●'d up the Channels of your Seas, and Blood?  
When the warm season calls you out to meet,  
Has your cold Terrors frozen in your Fleet?  
If you have any right, or courage, come,  
We shall allow you Mare liberum.  
We'll release all our glorious Selden writ,  
And wave the weighty moments of his Wit:  
The Sea (made by our Cause, and Valour, wide)  
Is narrowed by your Cowardice, and Pride,  
You make a Mare clausum, what? must we  
Break up your Banks to set the Ocean free?  
Let's to that Controversy put an end:  
Justice, or War; be Eenemy or Friend:  
Ye know what pains your learned Grotius took  
De jure belli; fight, or burn his Book.  
Are the State's General dumb by consent,  
At one Vote of a loyal Parliament?  
Amazed that our State Chemists can afford  
Such vast supplies, coin Millians with a word:  
Is Amsterdam, which used to be so crank,  
(Boasting the rich Mines of her moun'tenous Bank)  
Fallen sick (not of her Pestilence) but guilt,  
Having no innocent blood left to be spilt?  
Or (what is worse) is the transplanted Plague  
Removed from Amsterdam unto the Hague?  
Where the great Tradesmen all their Plots disburse,  
Unite the People, and divide their Purse.  
All Artless grown? no Pilot fit to steer?  
Where are your souls, neither in heaven nor here?  
Do Gunpowder and Brandee mix in vain  
To thaw the frozen Region of your brain?  
Are ye afraid the British Oaks ye bought  
(Thinking to break our Ribs before we fought)  
Should with your Gild sink, or your judgement burn,  
Or by instinct of Sympathy return?  
As once our Phoenix (which a fatal hour  
Had captivated by unequal power)  
From midst of all your Screech-owls took her wing,  
And flew home, to enjoy a kinder Spring:  
An act rare as the Bird, the English will  
(Though sometimes Rebels) yet be English still:  
The wiser sound this dis-harmonious pause,  
Your Ships are strong, your hearts weak like your Cause:  
Where is that fury sunk your Sovereign's Fleets  
Wrapped all in flaming Sails for Winding sheets?  
While (friend to both) th' amazed British shore,  
Trembled to see her locks bedewed with Gore.  
None to succeed the generous Vantrump,  
Who fiercely grappled with th' omnipotent Rump?  
(For so deluded Wights, they thought t' have been,  
But Heaven is more omnipotent than Sin)  
That both were stout, is no prodigious thing,  
Rebels with fight with Rebels, or a King.  
Restore what ye have gained by Fraud and Stealth;  
Pirates and Robbers of both India's wealth,  
Hire not the Blacks your Neighbours to betray,  
Whites in your face, in soul more Blacks than they;  
Nor catch the Guiny natives with your Begins,  
Reformed more Heathen by your Christian sins.  
When will a Dutchman in one vessel hold  
His Honesty and Trade, his Faith, and Gold?  
While man has memory, may that hellish Plot  
Of cursed Amboyna never be forgot:  
Where you pretend a treacherous surprise,  
First to betray, and then to tyrannize,  
Racks, Flames, and Tortures, all so exquisite;  
Seemed not to show your Malice but your Wit:  
By tedious Torments, forcing us confess  
What we ne'er thought, Made guilty by distress:  
For after strict search (and a Dutch man's Eye  
Rubbed with revenge is quick as jealousy)  
Envy could find no weapons of offence;  
Nothing ro storm your walls but Innocence!  
But you that Jnnocent blood in peace have spilt,  
Doubtless delight to sacrifice to Gild!  
Are all the Men and Ships destroyed last War?  
Sunk in your memories too, no warning scar?  
Can a poor Epileptic Body (dead  
Without the living inflevence of a Head)  
Your numerous, and experienced Navies beat.  
Or force them to the shame of a Retreat?  
And shall not Britain's Monarchy do more  
Then it's sick Anarchy had done before?  
Convince us why Republics Privileged are  
T'usurp the wide Sea, and the wider Air:?  
Is the whole Eastern World your  due,  
Which Rome ne'er had, when she had Us, and you?  
Yet your Republic is a divers Thing,  
The Romans had two Consuls though no King,  
They durst not start too far, resolved to be  
Within the prospect of a Monarchy:  
The prudence of those sober Ages knew  
Greater the Monster was, the more heads grew.  
Two Persons Ruled, with one mysterious Will;  
The Roman State was thus Monarchik still:  
Two Consuls Reigned, One the whole Work did do;  
Ruled both the Public, and his fellow too.  
When dire Confusions must in time restore  
You to the Thraldoms ye bewailed before.  
Did the communicative Sun create  
All Spices, to make Incense for one State?  
Your Pride, and Auerice will work your bane;  
Where no satiety is, there's little Gain!  
Grasp what ye well may hold, 'Tis they extend  
Too far, who reach their Ruin, not their End:  
Though you hold forth a single jointed Hand,  
Your fingers start, and disunited stand.  
We all admire Divinity in One,  
But not in every Concrete Union.  
You think the Narrow Seas for us too much,  
Yet the whole Globe too little for the Dutch.  
Good Friends Print Books, and let the Maps alone,  
Account not what you Sell, but buy, your own.  
Thus, while fair Liberty you give, and crave,  
You would be Free, to make the World a Slave.  
Tell me (than Low-Dutch) when you were as big  
With Commonwealth, as ever Sow with Pigg,  
Who your blessed Midwife was; I trow, a Queen,  
Or you had never High, and Mighty been.  
Who was it raised you to this monstrous Height?  
Taught ye at first, not to Rebel, but Fight?  
You have forgot our Sydnies, and our Veres,  
Our Monk, and Oxford, Commoners and Peers;  
Who shed their rich blood for your Infant State;  
First to procure your Freedom, than your Hate.  
Do not so far degenerate, to conclude  
Your utmost Period with Ingratitude.  
Ingratitude? O Heavens! Has not that word,  
An edge as sharp as your old General's sword;  
Does not that brave heroic Prince's Ghost?  
Stare in your faces? tell you all is lost?  
If you with England fight or shall invade  
Her Royal Rights, or check her Popular Trade;  
If you by Spanish Gabells shall annoy  
Your Fellow Merchants; and divest his Boy.  
Tell me ye Men of breeding is it meet  
Or pleasant for the Head to kiss the feet?  
Does that new Blood quartered in every vein,  
His or the High and mighties honour stain?  
Know the young Prince is more than Orange, now,  
He may remit, Great Britain must not bow,  
Be just to Him, and Us, the Quarrel ends,  
Silver will solder all, and make us friends.  
May never Pest from Amsterdam remove,  
Till ye restore him to your Faith and Love!  
Mean time our Loyal Duke does kindly wait,  
To know the pleasures of the Mighty State,  
Hoping this favour you'll retaliate too,  
To send him word what Amsterdam will do   
FINIS.