THE ROYAL RENDEZVOUS: Or, The Magnificence of His Majesty's Fleet.  
BLess me! Where am I? To what Ruin bend?  
I should be by this Moving Wood, in Kent?  
Methought I saw a City on the Seas,  
And by the Steeples, told the Parishes;  
There might be (as I guess) twice Seventy Seven,  
Whose Babel-Towers were climbing up to Heaven:  
Their Language was Confusion; And, their Breath  
Darkened the Air with Sentences of Death.  
They seemed to me a stand of Pikes, or Trees  
That over-top the humble Copices.  
With these high Towering Masts, our Muse gins;  
And where such Sign-posts are, What are the Inns?  
Those Trojan Horses, formed by Pallas' Charms,  
Not stuffed with Garbage, but with Men and Arms.  
Those Wooden Mountains on the Wavie Maine,  
As if the Giants would Fight Jove again.  
If Philip King of Spain did once call His  
Invincible: What would he think of This?  
Away with Xerxes' Chains, fond Foolery;  
'tis such a Fleet as this Fetters the Sea:  
You would have thought that the Tumultuous Flood  
Was not so much an Ocean, as a Wood:  
And that vast Womb of Ships, Forest of Dean,  
Stubed by the Rebels, was grown up again.  
A Floating- Island, a Realm did surpass  
Denmark and Dantzick for your Choice of Masts.  
I'm confident next Month we shall Advance  
Maypoles enough to make the Dutchmen Dance:  
Did you but see our- Frigates, you would swear,  
Norway had left scarce either Pitch, or Tarr.  
For Led, you would suppose here Derby was;  
For Iron, Bilboa; and Corinth for Brass.  
And for Provision, you would think you were  
In Egypt, to behold the Corn that's here.  
Brandy, although sufficient, we Decline;  
Spirits of Men are here, give Cowards Wine.  
And, say, Seven Provinces United be;  
Each Ship of ours is a Whole Colony.  
And Lofty Waves, that as Spectators, crowd;  
Honoured with such a Fleet, may well be proud.  
Whilst, both the Waters, and the Winds, agree,  
To swell our Sails into a Tympany,  
What shall we not be able then to do,  
That have GREAT CESAR, and His Fortunes too!  
And, Superadd to this, a CAUSE so Just;  
We might to Providence and Cockbotes trust:  
But, Blessed be Heaven, we have a Royal Fleet,  
Will make those Picture-Mongers Crouch to seer.  
Talk not of Tempus est, Bacon's an Ass;  
Our Wooden Walls are stronger than his Brass.   

With Allowance.   

LONDON, Printed for T.W. 1672.