Ad Populum: OR, A Low-Country Lecture to the People OF ENGLAND, After a Thanksgiving Dinner, Aug. 25. 1653.  
Whereunto is annexed an EPITAPH Upon M. H: Vanthromp, made by his own Secretary, and faithfully translated into English, word for word.  
WITH, Another more sober Epitaph by a concealed Author.   printer's or publisher's device 
Aug: 27th LONDON, Printed for G. B. in Fleetstreet. 1653.   

A Low-countries Lecture to the People of England after a Thanksgiving Dinner.  

AFfronted by the Dutch? A Nation that  
Began on English Alms, and so grew fat?  
That own their Livelihoods, and latter breath  
To our more merciful Elizabeth;  
When on their bended Knees with stretched out hands,  
And stile of poor distressed Netherlands  
They got the Golden Fleece; shall these, grown high,  
Outbrave us with their Aristocracy?  
We grant them High and Mighty, Monstrous strange;  
(As th' Grassehoppers upon the old Exchange.)  
We grant their Crests like Joves when he was Bull-  
Rampant, when Lovesick, and of Vigour full:  
Now, now I scent the plot and cunning on't,  
That Jove is said to cross the Hellespont;  
When being aided with a present Fleet  
He and his dear Europa went to Crete:  
If Hercules got forty in a Night,  
How many Dutchmen Jove before daylight?  
Nay Authors there are extant, that aver  
That Bacchus was begot a Hollander,  
And after th' Act that Melancholy Jove  
Took Semele and thrust her in a Stove:  
Yet though he lodged young Bacchus in his thigh,  
These Dutchmen find him out when they are dry;  
But lest some envious Wight should think we strain,  
Let Barkley speak, and we go on again.   Germani nullâ comitate suavius quam longo nec sobrio conviviò peregrinos credunt accipere, & tam verissimam ab ipsis hospitibus benevolentiam in se expromi, ubi mutuis poculis innudari non-abnuunt: Immensa cupiditas potus jans confesso vitio illam gentem infestat, nec ad voluptatem tantum haec Thracia libido est, fed in part Comitatis & penè disciplinae, etc. 

Ears they have eminent and Visible,  
Slit but the Tip 'tis like a Testicle,  
In which should any of them Pendents wear,  
A Jackline to them were but as a hair;  
And for a Jewel to so grave a Pate,  
Great Tom of Lincoln were most adequate:  
Poor johna Gaunt, or puny Warwick's Guy,  
Compared to these, is a mere jeffery:  
An Hercules, or Omphale in stone,  
Are but as Pigmies upon Pelion:  
That Man-devouring Lunsford were he put  
Under an Arm of theirs, would only strut  
Like a young Mandrake, or the Child that grew  
Within his side was lately set at view.  
What think we of three hundred then and more,  
Borne at a litter on the Belgic shore,  
Of these young Tadpole-spawnes? so  a Train,  
As if some Pharaoh to be plagued again:  
Had we such teeming wombs, our Army might  
Give warning for an Army overnight,  
And armed Mirmydons next day appear,  
Ready for battle the ensuing year,  
In coats of Secundene, instead of Buff,  
True coats of Male, proceeding from the Ruff  
Dame Nature wears, and freely doth bestow  
Upon these Red-coats ere she lets them go:  
Thus Cadmus with his Serpent's Teeth i'th' Earth  
Got Mars a new stock by a present birth;  
And men ex tempore stood Ranke and File,  
Just as the Teeth grew in the Crocodile.  
An hungry Camp no doubt, and such as might  
Grin at the Foe, and put them all to flight.  
Well, go thy way for a stupendious Meg.  
Thou needst no Issue in thy Arm or Leg  
To draw forth peccant humours, if we yield  
Mothers entail diseases on the Child;  
thou art as free from all as Eve when she  
Knew not a Bitter-sweet or pippin-Tree.   

Lend me belief some man of Public faith,  
Or I must stagger at what story saith:  
Never did Anatomists design or tell  
Toe very one of those his single Sell:  
Speak great Vanhelmont, how could all these lie  
Without committing Rapes and Buggery?  
Grant her the swine faced Lady, else to big,  
I must not think she was so huge with pig;  
'Tis so, and hence the Name of Boars that swill  
In their crude Barley Broths and hog wash still.  
What though the River Rhine pass by their Coast?  
(A thing whereof their hidebound Writers boast.)  
What though Pannonia yield them rich supplies?  
Is this a plea for red distorted eyes?  
Should one of them, o'er taken, reel and fall,  
'Twould cause an Earthquake Epidemical:  
Nay, were their Gallows not made of stone,  
Astraea might go hang herself for one;  
No Justice would be done, for should they do't  
In wood, it would take up fifteen hundred foot,  
And yet not serve the turn, whereas alas  
They see not so much in a twelvemonth's space;  
Their Fuel is Flora's green mantle, which  
They burn, (as if their Mother was a Witch.)  
A Chimny-sweeper there is a worse Trade  
Than is a Poet here, and yet 'tis said,  
Our English palates have been so mistaken,  
As not to know them by the taste from Bacon:  
Nay more, 'tis said, their hides have been sent over,  
And served for Shoe-soales twenty miles round Dover.   

Well may the Cuts Physicians get from thence  
Be more demonstrative to outward sense,  
In whom the very Capillary Veins  
Appear like Cableropes, and in their Brains  
The Privy parts as visible and fair,  
As if one should dissect a Flanders Mare:  
The hammer in the Ear like Vulcan's, and  
The Drum strikes an Alarm at command:  
A well appointed Army might get in,  
Break through the Labyrinth and steal the Pin.  
Nor is it hyperbolical to say,  
john Lilburne was an Earewigg th' other day,  
And buzzed about, and did distil into  
The Orenge-mongers what they were to do.   

What Rage O Citizens, what madness now  
Makes such a breach 'twixt Maurice grave and you?  
He that delighteth in that title more  
Than did his Predecestors heretofore;  
Who from a Mutton fist would ne'er refuse  
A clap upon the shoulder, or such News  
As jeffery and Ralph tell on the way,  
As they jog homewards on a Market-day;  
Such as the fumes afforded that proceed  
From Brande wine good store and Indian weed.   

O were Erasmus now alive to tell  
Their Colloquies when  they article;  
How many large Beere-glasses bid for Peace,  
How many more revied before they cease:  
Peace? 'tis a thing more estimable than  
The salted Rump of a Muscovian Hen,  
No Pickled-herring like it, 'tis for this  
They worship to their drag-net while they fish.   

O for a Rhombus here to plead for Peace,  
(That they might once more sing sweet Oranges,)  
Such as the Adriatic seas did yield  
To Nero as the Master of the field;  
A Present, such an one as might draw on  
The most obdurate to compunction.   

Were there but such a Rhombus to be had,  
How would the Senators at Hague be glad,  
And hope their Gilders and their Duckettoones  
Might still be theirs against the Afternoons  
Collation, all in Drink (Jack Falstaff like)  
No jars but those of Wine, none forced to strike;  
No cautionary Towns demanded then,  
No arms be laid down, no impeaching Men,  
Nor fight, except once in twenty years  
Or so, to learn how to put on their gears.   

How might they teach this Rhombus to implore  
Mercy upon the sea, upon the shore;  
And put it in his mouth, to let them know,  
He never was my Lord of Warwick's foe?  
Never persuaded Huls delivery,  
Or tempted Sir John Hotham with a fee,  
Though some Malignant tongue, some spiteful man  
Say Rhombus is a Presbyterian.  
Cousin to John of Leiden, and that he came,  
The Author of that sect to Amsterdam?   

This were the way, first teach him how to bow,  
When take his Cue, next where to stop, and how  
To keep his countenance, and role his eye,  
With a beseeming graceful Modesty;  
As for the ground and subject of his speech,  
Let it be all submissive to beseech  
The victors, that they might no tribute pay,  
But rather, that (for ever and a day)  
Their fishing might be free, and what they took  
Might be their own, be it with net or hook.  
How can they Tributaries be (alas,)  
Out of a few Poor john, and a little Plaice;  
A sea-dog or a Tortoisse, or perhaps,  
A quarter of an hundred of poor Crabs.  
No Salmon in his mouth did ever bring  
One piece of silver for an offering,  
Nor Flounder, though his mouth would nothing bate,  
In compass of the Mouth at Aldersgate.  
If any do for greater booties toil,  
How do they lose their labour and their oil?  
The generous Whale, plays with her skill and power,  
And sends some Remora Ambassador  
To stop their proud design, and bid them trade  
In their beloved herring or dry shed.  
How shall an hundred thousand precious souls  
Drink after supper, in transcendent bowls,  
As both their constitution and the fire,  
They carry in their veins, eft 'zounds require?   

O Herring! Herring! thou art that King-fish,  
For whose offences, man must bear all this;  
'tis for thy trespasses, 'tis for thy sin,  
But see now what a pickle thou art in;  
When boys in London streets with open throat,  
Do cry thee up and down for five a groat.  
If needs Elected Princes, let their be  
The Lobster chosen next, clad cap-a-pe:  
That with defensive Arms may gain the field  
With Natural, not artificial shield:  
An Ajax that may laugh within his shell,  
And stories of Great Hector vanquished tell.   

But Rhombus may not on, or farther prate,  
Nature hath taken an order well for that:  
All that he speaks here, is by Miracle,  
Having no Lungs, to help one syllable;  
Yet for his Country, such a heart as bleeds  
To think that they must feed next year on greeds,  
And grains divorced from their dearest Beer,  
What will become then of A vous mine heir?  
No set meals once a quarter then, where Tony  
Is placed above his Mistress, and sleek joan  
Drinks to her master set at lower end,  
By nod and not by word, as to her friend.  
Some hope is of Conversion, where the jew  
Sits with the Gentile (were it so i'th' Pew)  
No more of Aaron's Bells, no more I tro,  
Of very Moses, brought out for a show,  
With ten Commandments (the 11th would be  
Not to abuse him, were it very he)  
No more shall Innocents' of eight days old,  
Exposed lie, to cruelty and cold.  
No more, no more of Circumcision boast,  
'Tis seen how the Virility is lost.  
Policy, now bids you get men indeed,  
Give them Restoratives, not make them bleed:  
That they may tug the Oars and Canvas spread,  
When the remainder of mankind is dead:  
And every Pirrha, when her mate is gone  
Officiate for her lost Deu calion.  
If once more ye are beat, let th' women all,  
Enter themselves into Mall Cutpurse Hall.  
Whence a new stock may come, that scorn to wink  
And fight, when for their wench, and not their drink.   
FINIS.   

EPITAPH.  

HEre lies his high and mightiness— Hiccup,  
— sirrah you Rascal fill out t'other cup,  
His High and mightiness— (for there I think  
I left off)— sirrah shall we have no drink?  
His high and mightiness— Lord of what not,  
Lord of— you rogue bring up a chamber pot.  
Lord of what not, Lord of (so fare I'm right,  
Bring in some clean pipes quickly, and a light)  
— Lord of what not— Lord of the Ocean deep,  
— Hanged let another make it, I must sleep.    

Another.  

HEre with his face towards Heaven, great Tromp is laid,  
(Thus grinning honour Titles, thus are paid)  
A Ship his Tomb and Coffin, where poor he,  
Lies a sad Omen to his Soldiery.  
The calmer gales in vain now fan the deep,  
In vain they rock the Bark; he's fast asleep.