ON HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS His Expedition against the DUTCH.  By Mrs. E. P. 

PRoud Hogen, Mogen's, we will make you bow,  
Have at you, greasy Butter Boxes now,  
Brave York once more against you does advance,  
And in him more then all the Power of France;  
'T oppose him is in vain, all you can do,  
Is nothing, his name's enough to Conquer you.  
But when in Person he vouchsafes to appear  
Prepare to think your day of Doom is near.  
That glorious Hero, never Arms put on  
But he made Victory her self his own;  
Who still has waved her white Plume o'er his head,  
And now to vanquish you, by her is led.  
Though 'tis a shane,( that worthy) should pursue,  
Honour unto such Savage Bores as you.  
But you( this never dying same) shall know,  
What in his Countreys quarrel he dare do.  
Presumptuous Villains, could you find out none,  
But England's King, to use your jests upon?  
Slaves, you e're long shall know, none was less fit,  
To be a Subject for your scurvy wit.  
( But York in whose Illustrious name are charms,  
That Cowards hearts even with pure courage warms  
And does infuse new Soul in every man,  
With much more vigour then dull Brandy can.)  
Will punish each affront that you have done  
To your inevitable destruction.  
he'l make you curse the time, you Pictures drew  
And draw some of ye, nay and hang you too,  
Full of your Fate, he's with our Fleet set forth,  
With such a noble train of English youth.  
That when those matchless numbers, you shall view,  
You'l think the world is come to Conquer you.  
Methinks I hear the injured Spirits call  
( For Vengeance) that did at Amboyna fall.  
Victims, to your unheard of Cruelty,  
( To those) that for them will revenged be.  
Their Souls do hover o'er our Ships, and seem  
To promise Conquest both to us and them.  
Our Fleet like to a moving Realm, I see  
In triumph on the bosom of the Sea.  
Which bears it proudly, being a gem of more  
( Worth) then sh' has worn upon her breast before.  
The Sea-gods wait upon it all along,  
And thousand water-Nymphs about it throng.  
The waves their Royal burden gently court,  
And all the wind's, with the calm Ocean sport.  
Tithon gives Thetis leave, to entertain  
In all her charms, our Gallants on the main.  
And's pleased in spite of age and jealousy,  
They shall on his young Mrs. bosom lie.  
Each Power to us, does kind presages give  
That as our cause is just, so we shall thrive.  
Wit is too like a common friend, indeed,  
Who still forsakes us when we have most need.  
Or somewhat more should be by me expressed,  
But let our Canons speak to you the rest.  
And tell you to your ruins you must die  
T'apease the wrath of angered Majesty.   
FINIS.   

With Allowance,  
Printed in the Year, 1672.