AN ANSWER To the French DECLARATION.  

THE Heavens look big with wonder, and inform  
Our Expectations of some present Storm.  
French, Dutch and Dane too, all at once? why then  
'Tis time to show that We are English Men.  
They say, at Football Three to one is odds;  
But this is nothing, for the Cause is Gods.  
Have at 'em all, we care not where we come,  
Since Gracious Heaven is reconciled at Home,  
Courage brave BRITAIN'S then, We do no more  
But fight with those whom We have beat before.  
And now methinks, much better may We, since  
We fight for such an All accomplished Prince,  
Who the World's Conquest is as fair to get  
As Alexander (like himself) the Great.  
Talk not of Ten to One, pitiful story,  
Alas the odds does but increase the Glory:  
Besides the English from their Ancestry  
Derive themselves the heirs of Victory  
Where should the Sons of Honour, if they die,  
But in the Field, the bed of Honour lie?  
The World will know, when time shall serve, we dare  
Come out, and meet that Prince of Pitch and Tar;  
Bring your Wind-selling Laplanders too, do  
Sure We shall deal with ye, and board ye too;  
And you will tell us, when this comes to pass  
Your Bergen bu's'ness no such bargain was.  
Danes? We don't fear ye; come, alas ye know  
Our Women beat ye once, and so may now.  
Nor value we that Kingdom of Kick shawes,  
We come not to receive, but give them Laws;  
We shall provide 'em such a Frigaze  
Of Legs and Arms they'll scarce be glad to see.  
They now must understand with whom they cope,  
A mighty Prince, and not a Mytered Pope;  
One that will otherwise the matter handle,  
With Glittering Sword, and not Bell, Book and Candle:  
One that shall Anathematise ye worse,  
Not to pronounce but execute your Curse:  
He'll bring ye Jeggerie home to your door:  
Instead of Bulls you'll hear his Canons roar;  
And I make bold to tell ye in the close  
Although no Popes, we'll make ye kiss our Toes.  
An English Monarch (Mounsieur) no new thing,  
Has sent his Son to fetch him a French King:  
If ye suspect, or scruple our report,  
Inquire at Poitiers, Cressie, Agin-Court,  
That place never to be forgotten, where  
The Prisoners more than we that took'em were:  
The French shall know it too, as we advance,  
'Tis We, not they, fight for the King of France.  
Ye boast of Gold and Silver, and such stuff,  
We'll bring ye Pockets for it sure enough.  
And if we meet ye on the foaming source  
we'll have a word or too of deep Discourse.   

A fig for France or any that accords  
With those Low-Country Leather-Apern Lords.    

LONDON, Printed for the Author, 1665/6.