The Dutch Armado A mere Bravado. A POEM upon the Late Engagement at Sea.  By the Author of the Dutch Embargo. Non nos ampullas.— 

AFter a strict Embargo on Their Fleet,  
The Dutch enraged with Brandy-valour meet:  
Like a deaf Fiddler, tedious, large and long;  
Whose tuning takes up more time than his Song:  
Or like a thick rhymed Bull, when Goads and Strokes  
His sullen Humour into Rage provokes.  
In Crescent form the furious Turks began,  
Resolved t'appear, at least half Christian.  
But soon the English broke the Belgic Bow:  
(May the Venetian break the Ottoman so.)  
Both Parties mixed, maintain a Noble strife,  
To purchase victory with the sale of Life:  
Guns, like their Hearts, with national heats inspired,  
The airy Arch into an Oven fired.  
The singed Birds to the upper Region fly  
For cool Protection, or i'th' lower dye.  
The Fish down to the boiling bottoms shrink,  
And there like Dutch, for Water Brandy drink.  
Vexed Canons, like Perillus' Engine, roar  
And with import'nate violence seem t' implore,  
Heaven to decide so vocal a contest,  
In such fair and Illustrious Colours dressed.  
Had this been (Ages since) a Roman Wonder,  
IT had taught their Ethnic Jove new Modes of Thunder.  
The English tired with the least Interval,  
For a more expeditious Conflict call:  
Resolved at length (as the Old Story goes,  
The Romans served their Carthaginian Foes)  
To Grapple in close Fight, make the Dutch stand  
As firm at Sea, as if they fought on Land.  
The Monsieur (who devoted his fine Blood  
Not to the Holland cause, but Neighbourhood.)  
Was at a loss, with tortured eyebrows gazed,  
Never at any Mistress so amazed.  
Frolic at first, as if he came to hunt  
For Mer-maids, but met no venereal brunt:  
(Venus was gone, and lay in Mars his Arms;  
As Fortune did i'th' Dukes, with Nobler charms)  
Must stand or fall; things he's not used to do,  
Can He but run with six Legs or with two.  
Fired over board the Poor petit Frenchman,  
Frisk like a Flounder leped from frying Pan.  
Now Muskets more Blood than the Canons spill,  
Whilst Swords, some Dutch with mere reflections kill.  
Both sides engage with free expense of breath;  
As sworn to conquer not their Foes, but death.  
Opdam falls like a grave Judge from his Chair,  
Is after coached in Flames into the Air.  
Lepanto's force, compared to this dread sight,  
Was a faint skirmish, or a painted fight.  
Two opposite Religions struggled there;  
Christian with Turk, Christian with Christian here:  
Protestant with Protestant, a worse Fight  
Than Bell and Dragon, Pope and Hugonite.  
When two cross Elements for Mastery strive,  
One dies, that so the other may survive:  
So kinder distance oft a quarrel ends,  
Continued by Antipathy of Friends.  
Opdam thus blown up in both Navies eye,  
(That Giant of the Dutch Theomachy)  
Loath to give up at once their boasted might,  
The Hollanders like wary Parthians fight:  
At length (as night to day) are forced to yield,  
And quit their Stations in the Liquid Field.  
While the astonished Sea in horror stood,  
Discoloured with two tinctures, Flames and Blood.  
There might you see dismembered men appear,  
Floating in shoals, no hope, nor Harbour near:  
Had only this persuasive to rejoice,  
That of two certain deaths they had their choice:  
But newly scorched with Flames they were content,  
To breathe out in a cooler Element.  
Had you but seen (beside the sunk and slain)  
Those swarms of  Swimmers in the Main;  
Astonished then, both Fleets, you would have said,  
Was into Fishes metamorphosed.  
Great Duke, thou care of Heaven, hadst not defence,  
But a just Cause guarded by Providence:  
How did your courage the whole Fleet inspire,  
And coldest breasts to fearless Actions fire?  
What sense of manhood wrought for Spain and France,  
Honour would for your Native soil advance:  
You skermished only as a Soldier there,  
Fought now as a concerned Proprietere.  
Was here to nothing, but yourself, unkind,  
When for exchange of deaths, you left behind  
Dear Relatives, a Brother and a King,  
A Royal Mother, and a nearer THING,  
The virtuous Duchess; whose blessed Prayers and tears  
Redeemed your life, and ransomed all our fears.  
Some great ones fell, t'instruct us by their fate,  
We honour love, which our base enemies hate;  
A double glory from their falls did rise,  
To be their Countries, and your Sacrifice.  
O may the hearts of these three Nations burn  
One entire Holocaust for your Return.  
Brave Rupert, whose high, and yet humble spirit  
Disguised the Prince, distinguished by his merit:  
May the convinced world never more be rude  
To check your just fame by ingratitude.  
The English (who in former times we find  
So civil and so hospitably kind)  
'Gainst strangers now a prejudice have raised,  
All may be Virtuosos, but none praised.  
Had all the Champions of our vanquished Cause  
(Who fought for honour, liberty and Laws)  
Been stout as you, a glorious Wight (now dead)  
Had kept four Crowns, and his more precious head.  
Methink I hear some interrupting voice  
Whisper your worsted Enemies rejoice:  
Oh let them laugh that win! let 'em make squibs  
Thank Heaven and us for threshing their Whale-ribs.  
A fool will soon conjecture it goes ill  
With him that's bruised and is not sensible.  
What need they Conquer, whose unhallowed Bells  
Can cant a victory, when they should ring knells?  
Who can their Froes with feigned bonfires greet,  
And mock the real bonfires of their Fleet.  
Well, seldom game so lost, but Losers make  
One trick; The Conquered from their Conquerors take.  
Fortune was pleasant, when she lent the Dutch  
Our CHARITY, a thing they wanted much.    

London printed for Thomas Palmer at the Crown in Westminster-Hall, 1665.