A GRATULATORY VERSE Upon Our late Glorious VICTORY OVERDO THE DUTCH,  By the Author of Iter Boreale. 

GOut! I conjure thee by the powerful Names  
Of CHARLES and JAMES, 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 comest 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 puzzled Physic: Give the Dutch a Rout,  
Probatum est, 'twill cure an English Gout.   

Come then, gut nimble Socks upon my Feet,  
They shall be Skippers to our Royal Fleet,  
Which now returns in dances on our Seas,  
A Conqueror above Hyperboles.  
A Sea which with Bucephalus doth scorn  
Less than an Alexander should be born  
Oh her proud Back; But to a Royal Rein  
Yields foaming Mouth, and bends her curled Main:  
And conscious that she is too straight a stage  
For Charles to act on, swelled with Loyal Rage,  
Urgeth the Belgic and the gallic shore  
To yield more room, Her Master must have more,  
Ingrateful Neighbours! 'twas Our kinder Isle,  
With her own Blood, made Your Geneva Style  
Writ in small Print [Poor States and fore perplexed]  
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 saved our Coals, yet gave you Fire good store,  
It is enough; The righteous Heavens have now  
Judged 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.   

Me thinks I hear great Triton found 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-Cod, Vanling, Van-Herring will be cried  
About their Streets; All Fish, so Dutchified.  
Their States may find their Capers in their Dish,  
And meet their Admirals in Buttered Fish,  
Thus they'll imbody, and increase 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, Beloved 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 smoke;  
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 Belgic Beasts, who live, aspire,  
To fall Your Sacrifice in his pure Fire.  
He shall proclaim Our JAMES great Neptune's Wonder,  
And like a Jove Fight in Clouds and Thunder.     

Printed at London, and reprinted at Edinburgh, 1665.