CAESAREM & FORTUNAM Vehis PARAPhRASEd.  
OR A 
 Poem on the King's ResoluTiON of going foR IReLAND   

Caesarem & Fortunam Vehis, paraphrased: OR A POEM on the King's Resolution of going for Ireland.  
GO Stately Argonaute! may prosperous Gales  
All from above conspire to fill thy Sails;  
Thy Cargo is Three Crowns, Caesar to boot;  
And he alone worth more, from Head to Foot:  
Let Neptune waft thee! and his Trident sway  
St. George's Channel, to make smooth his way,  
Until thou dost arrive unto that Land,  
Where Teagues inhabit, which he should command.  
No sooner put a Shore, there mayest thou be  
As soon a Conquest, as we late did see  
England subdued; where thou didst only Land  
And we were saved, with Heaven in every Hand.  
Great! is thy Character; Success, thy Name,  
To add to William-Henry's greater Fame.  
Thou needst not fetch St. Peter's Keys from Rome,  
No, nor St. Patrick's Cloak out of the Loom,  
To bless thy Enterprise. Victorious Youth,  
Thou dost not steer by Legends, but by Truth:  
Thou hast a greater Influence, better Guide,  
Thy Convoy both by Land and Sea beside.  
Methinks I see thee drain up every Bog,  
Methinks I see thee root out every Log.  
And that each Man about thee in thy sight  
Another Strongbow is, to claim thy right.  
And every Bullet in its place did lurk,  
When sent abroad, ordained to do thy Work.  
Methinks I see Transub, with Irish Breeding,  
With his Heart aching, and his Nose a bleeding,  
Distracted with his Teagues, all giving ground,  
When William's Drums do beat, his Trumpets sound.  
Gild is a Poltroon, Innocence is stout;  
And from the Jaws of Hell helps Virtue out.  

Methinks I hear along the River Shannon  
Hundreds bid, for a Guide to Balilanon;  
As my Lord Lile (of old) did to Dunganon;   
Thence to escape; giving the Teagues the Lose, 
The French King.   
To his Dear Joys; first brought him to this Noose.  
St. Patrick purged the much more harmless Beast,  
Of Venom, in the Men we see increased.  
Great Monarch! that is left to thy sole Powers,  
Peopling anew that Land, and to call it yours;  
In spite of Grumbletonians, halting Knaves,  
Who fond know not, why they would be Slaves.  
But Orange! he has fenced us, while we see  
The Belgic Lion with our Three ag●●e.  

Let Lewis Rhod'mont●de, and J●mmy whine,  
King William will drink Rhenish Claret Wine  
One Day in France, for to control the Seine:   
And when his Troops the Macs and O's reduces,  
Le Grand or Rhoan's Whelp, woe to thy Flower de Luce's!  
He breaks thy Triple League, formed to become  
The Ruin and the Bane of Christendom.  
The Ottoman's baffled, Jemmy's Hooks in is Nose;  
And Devil's-gift Lewis, he too has his Throws,  
No Midwifery will serve to save him blows,  
No, though the Maid of Orleans interpose.  
Until he be reduced by th' Empire's Lance  
From all's Encroachments, to his Isle of France:  
There behold Jemmy, Lewis drawing Cuts,  
Who best Shoots Rovers, having lost their Butts;  
When in comes William-Henry, spoils their Sport,  
And hits the Mark, blessed be Providence for't.  
So with Augustus having cleared the Age  
Of every violent Humour, wilder Rage  
He seems, all Storms and Tempests being furled,  
To settle Truth and Peace o'er all our World.   

London, Printed for G. Wallup. 1690.