A Lamentable Narration of the sad Disaster of a great part of the Spanish Plate-Fleet that perished near St. Lucas, where the marquess, his Lady, and Children, and many hundreth of Spaniards were Burnt and sunk in the bottom of the Sea, by the Valour and Prowess of the two brave Generals Montague and Blake in the year, 1657. being their first Victory obtained against the Spaniard in that Voyage.  
 
NOw for some Ages had the Pride of Spain,  
Made the sun shine on half the world in vain.  
Whilst he bade war to all that durst supply  
The place of those her Cruelties made Die.  
Of nature's bounty men forbore to taste,  
And the best portion of the world lay waste;  
From the new world her Silver and her Gold  
Came like a tempest to confound the old.  
Feeding with these the bribed Electors hopes.  
She made at pleasure Emperors and Popes.  
With these advancing her unjust designs,  
Europe was shaken with her Golden Mines.  
When our PROTECTOR looking with disdain  
Upon this gilded Majesty of Spain,  
And knowing well that Empires must decline.  
Whose chief support and sinews are of coin,  
Our Nations solid virtue did oppose,  
To the rich Troublers of the world's repose.  
And now some months encamping on the main,  
Our naval army had besieged Spain.  
They who the whole world's Monarchy designed,  
Are to their Ports by our bold Fleet confined.  
From whence our Red cross they triumphal see,  
Riding without a rival on the Sea,  
Others may use the Ocean as their Road,  
Only the English make it their abode;  
Whose ready sails with every wind comply,  
And make a Covenant with the unconstant sky.  
Our oaks secure as if they there took root,  
We tread on billows with a steady foot.  
Mean while the Spaniard in America,  
Near to the Line the Sun approaching sail,  
And hoped the Europian coast to find;  
Cleared from our Ships by the autumnal wind.  
Their Huge Caparious galleons stuffed with Plate,  
The labouring winds drives slowly towards their Fate.  
Before St. lucre's they their guns discharge  
To tell their joy, or to call forth a Barge.  
This heard some Ships of ours, though out of View  
And swift as Eagles to the Quarry flew.  
So heedless lambs which for their mother's bleat,  
Wake hungry lions, and become their meat.  
Arrived they soon begin that tragic Play,  
And with their smoky Cannons banish Day;  
Night, horror, Slaughter, with Confusion meets,  
And with their Sable arms Embrace the Fleets.  
Through yielding planks the angry Bullets fly,  
And of one Wound hundredth together die.  
Born under different stars, one Fate they have,  
The Ship their Coffin, and the Sea their Grave.  
Bold were the Men who on the Deck on first,  
Spread their new sails when shipwreck was the worst  
More dangers now from Men alone we find,  
Then from the rocks the billows or the Wind?  
They who had sailed from ne'er the Antarctic Pole  
Their Treasure safe, and all their Vessels whole.  
In sight of their dear country ruined be,  
Without the Guilt of either rock or Sea.  
Some were made Prize whilst other, burnt and sent,  
With their Rich Lading to the bottom went.  
Down sinks at once (so Fortune with us sports)  
The Pay of Armies and the Pride of Courts.  
Vain Man whose Rage buries as Low that store  
As Avarice, had digged for it before;  
What earth in her dark Bowels could not keep,  
From Greedy hands lies safer in the deep.  
There Thetis kindly does from Mortals hide,  
Those seeds of Luxury, Debate, and Pride.  
And now into her Lap the Richest Prize  
Fell with the Noblest of our Enemies.  
The Marquess glad to see the Fire destroy,  
Wealth that prevailing Foes were like to enjoy;  
Out from his Flaming Ship his Children sent  
To perish in a milder Element.  
Then laid him by his burning Lady's side;  
And since he could not save her, with her died.  
Death bitter is for what we leave behind,  
But taking with us all we have is kind:  
What could he more than hold for term of Life,  
His Indian Treasure, and more precious Wife  
Alive in Flames of equal Love they burned;  
And now together are to Ashes turned.  
Ashes more worth than all their funeral cost,  
Than the huge Treasure that was with them lost;  
Spices and gums about them melting fry,  
And phoenix like in their rich Nest they die.  
Fair Venus weeped her tender hands she wrung,  
That Love should perish whence herself was sprung,  
Her Son endeavouring her life to save,  
Drenched all his feathered arrows in the wave.  
Since when, so slow and so unsure they move,  
That never more we may expect such love.  
But now returns victorious Montague  
With laurel in his hand and half Peru,  
Let the brave Generals divide the Bough,  
Our great PROTECTOR hath such wreaths enough  
His conquering head hath no more room for bays,  
Then let it be as the whole Nation prays;  
Let the rich oar be forthwith melted down,  
And the State fixed by making him a crown;  
With Ermyns clad and Purple, let him hold  
A royal sceptre made of Spanish Gold.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed by T. F. for N. B.