University of Virginia Library

Sand***ch in Spain now, and the Duke in love.
Let's with new Gen'rals a New Painter prove:
Lylly's a Dutchman, danger's in his Art,
His Pencils may Intelligence impart.
Thou Gibson, that amongst thy Navy small
Of Muscle-shells commandest Admiral,
Thy self so slender, that thou shew'st no more
Than Barnacle new hatch'd of them before:
Come mix thy Water-colours, and express,
Drawing in little, what we yet do less.

First paint me George and Rupert ratling far
Both in one Box, like the two Dice of War?
And let the terror of their linked Name,
Fly through the Air, like Chain-shot, tearing Fame:
Jove in one Cloud did scarcely ever wrap
Lightning so fierce, but never such a clap.
United Gen'rals sure are th'onely spell,
Wherewith United Provinces to quell:
Alas, even they, though shell'd in treble Oak,
Will prove an Addle Egge, with double Yolk.
And therefore next uncouple either Hound,
And loo them at two Hares e're one be found:
Rupert to Beaufort; halloo! ah, there Rupert
Like the phantastick hunting of St. Hubert,
When he with Airy Hounds, and Horn of Air,
Pursues by Fountain bleau the witchy Hare.
Deep providence of State! that could so soon
Fight Beaufort here, e're he had quit Thouloon.
So have I seen, e're Human Quarrels rise,
Fore-boding Meteors combate in the Skies.
But let the Prince to fight with Rumour go,
The Gen'rals meet a more substantial Foe:
Ruyter he spies, and full of youthful heat,
Though half their number, thinks the odds too great:
The Fowler watching so his watry spot,
And more the Fowl, hopes for the better shot.
Though such a Limb was from his Navy torn,
He found no weakness yet, like Sampson shorn;
But swoln with sence of former Glory won,
Thought Monk must be by Albemarle out done:
Little he knew with the same Arm and Sword,
How far the Gentleman out-cuts the Lord.
Ruyter, inferiour unto none for Heart,
Superiour now in number and in Art;
Ask'd if he thought, as once our Rebel-Nation,
To conquer Theirs too, with a Declaration?
And threatens, though he now so proudly Sail,
He shall tread back his Iter Boreale:
This said, he the short Period, e're it ends,
With Iron-words from Brazen-Mouths extends:
Monk yet prevents him, e're the Navies meet,
And charges in himself alone a Fleet;
And with so quick and frequent motion Wound
His murthering sides about, the Ship seem'd round;
And the Exchanges of his Circling Tire,
Like whirling Hoops, shew'd of triumphant Fire.
Single he doth at their whole Navy aim,
And shoots them through a Porcupine of Flame.
In noise so regular his Cannons met,
You'd think that Thunder was to Musick set:
Ah! had the rest but kept a time as true
What Age could such a Martial Consort shew!
The listning Air unto the distant Shore,
Through secret Pipes conveys the tuned Roar;
Till as the Eccho's, vanishing, abate,
Men feel a dead sound like the pulse of State.
If Fate expire, let Monk her place supply,
His Guns determine who shall live or dye.
But Victory doth always hate a Rant;
Valour's her Brave, but Skill is her Gallant:
Ruyter no less with vertuous Envy burns,
And prodigies for Miracles returns:
Yet he observ'd how still his Iron Balls
Recoyl'd in vain against our Oaken Walls.
How the hard Pellets fell away as dead,
By our inchanted Timber fillipped.
Leave then, said he, th'invulnerable Keel,
We'll find they're feeble, like Achilles Heel:
He quickly taught, pours in continual Clouds
Of chain'd Dilemma's through our sinew'd Shrouds.
Forrests of Masts fall with their rude embrace,
Our stiff Sails masht, and netted into Lace;
Till our whole Navy lay their wanton Mark,
Nor any Ship could Sail but as the Ark,
Shot in the Wing, so at the Powder's call,
The disappointed Bird doth flutt'ring fall.
Yet Monk disabl'd, still such courage shews,
That none into his mortal gripe dare close:
So an old Bustard, maim'd yet loth to yeild,
Duels the Fowler in New-Market Field.
But since he found it was in vain to fight,
He imps his Plumes the best he can to flight:
This, Painter, were a noble Task to tell,
What indignation his great Breast did swell!

Ah rather than transmit th'story to Fame,
Draw Curtains, Gentle artist, o'er the shame:
Cashier the mem'ry of Dutell, rais'd up
To tast, instead of Death, his Highness Cup;
And if the thing were true, yet paint it not,
How Bartlet, as he long deserv'd, was shot;
Though others, that survey'd the Corps so clear,
Said he was only petrify'd for fear:
If so, th'hard Statue Mummy'd without Gum,
Might the Dutch Balm have spar'd, & English Tomb.
Yet if thou wilt paint MINNS turn'd all to Soul,
And the great HARMAN charkt almost to Coal;
And JORDAIN old worthy thy Pencil's pain,
Who all the while held up the Ducal Train:
But in a dark Cloud cover Askew, when
He quit the Prince to embarque in Lovestein;
And Wounded Ships, which we Immortal boast,
Now first led Captive to an hostile Coast.
But most with story of his Hand and Thumb,
Conceal (as Honour would) his Grace's Bum,
When the rude Bullet a large Collop tore
Out of that Buttock never turn'd before:
Fortune (it seems) would give him by that Lash,
Gentle correction for his fight so Rash.
But should the Rump perceive't, they'd say that Mars
Had now reveng'd them upon Aumarle's Arse.
The long disaster better o'er to vail,
Paint only Jonas three days in the Whale;
For no less time did conqu'ring Ruyter chaw
Our flying Gen'ral in his Spungy Jaw.
Then draw the Youthful Perseus all in haste,
From a Sea-Beast to free the Virgin chaste;
But neither Riding Pegasus for speed,
Nor with the Gorgon Sheilded at his need:
So Rupert the Sea Dragon did invade,
But to save George himself and not the Maid;
And though arriving late, he quickly mist
Ev'n Sails to fly, unable to resist.
Not Greenland Seamen that survive the fright
Of the Cold Chaos, and half eternal Night,
So gladly the returning Sun adore,
Or run to spy the next Years Fleet from Shore,
Hoping yet once within the Oyly side
Of the fat Whale, again their Spears to hide,
As our glad Fleet, with universal shout,
Salute the Prince, and wish the second bout.
Nor Winds, long Pris'ners in Earths hollow Vault,
The fallow Seas so eagerly assault;
As fiery Rupert, with revengeful Joy,
Doth on the Dutch his hungry Courage cloy;
But soon unrigg'd, lay like an useless Board;
(As Wounded in the Wrist, Men drop their Sword.)
When a propitious Cloud between us stept,
And in our Aid did Ruyter intercept.
Old Homer yet did never introduce,
To save his Heroes, Mists of better use.
Worship the Sun, who dwell where he doth rise;
This Mist doth more deserve our Sacrifice.

Now joyful Fires, and the exaulted Bell,
And Court-Gazetts, our empty Triumphs tell!
Alas! the time draws near, when overturn'd,
The lying Bells shall through the Tongues be burn'd;
Paper shall want to print that Lye of State,
And our false Fires, true Fires shall expiate.

Stay Painter here a while, and I will stay;
Nor vex the future Times with my survey:
Seest not the Monky Dutchess all undrest?
Paint thou but her, and she will Paint the rest.

This sad Tale found her in her outward Room,
Nailing up Hangings not of Persian Loom:
Like chaste Penelope that ne'er did rome,
But made all fine against her GEORGE came home.
Upon a Ladder, in her Coats much shorter,
She stood, with Groom and Coach-man for Supporter;
And careless what they saw, or what they thought,
With Honi Pense full honestly she wrought:
One Tenter drove, to lose no time nor place,
At once the Ladder thy remove, and Grace.
Whilst thus they her translate from North to East,
In posture just of a four footed Beast;
She heard the news: But alter'd yet no more,
Than that which was behind, she turn'd before;
Nor would come down, but with an Handkercher,
With Pocket foul did to her Neck prefer:
She shed no Tears, for she was too Viraginous,
But only snuffling her Trunk Cartilaginous,
From scaling Ladder she began a Story,
Worthy to be had in Memento Mori;
Arraigning past, and present, and futuri,
With a Prophetick, if not Friendly Fury:
Her Hair began to creep, her Belly sound,
Her Eyes to sparkle, and her Udder bound;
Half Witch, half Prophet; thus the Alb***arle,
Like Presbyterian Sybil, 'gan to Snarl:

Traytors both to my Lord, and to the King!
Nay now it is beyond all Suffering!
One valiant Man by Land, and he must be
Commanded out to stop their leaks at Sea:
Yet send him Rupert, as an helper meet;
First the Commands dividing, then the Fleet:
One may if they be beat, or both be hit,
Or if they overcome, yet Honours split:
But reck'ning GEORGE already knock'd i'th' head,
They cut him out like Beef, e're he be dead:
Each for a Quarter hopes; the first doth skip,
But shall fall short though, at the Gen'ral Ship:
Next they for Master of the Horse agree;
A third the Cock-pit begs; not any Me:
But they shall know, Ay! marry shall they do,
That who the Cock-pit hath, shall have Me too.
I told George first, as Calamy told me,
If the King brought these o're, how it would be:
Men that there pick his Pocket to his Face,
And sell Intelligence to buy a place.
That their Religion's pawn'd for Cloths, nor care,
'Tis run so long now, to redeem't, nor dare.
O what egregious Loyalty to cheat!
O what Fidelity it was to Eat!
Whilst Langdales, Hoptons, Glenhams starv'd abroad,
And here true Roy'lists sink beneath their load.
Men that did there affront, defame, betray
The King, and so do here; now who but they!
What! say I Men! Nay, rather Monsters; Men
Only in Bed, nor to my Knowledge then.
See how they home return'd in Revel Rout,
With the small manners that they first went out:
Not better grown, nor wiser all the while,
Renew the causes of their first Exile:
As if, to shew the Fool what 'tis I mean,
I chose a foul Smock, when I might have clean.

First they for fear disband the Army tame,
And leave good George a Gen'ral's empty Name:
Then Bishops must revive, and all unfix
With discontents, to content Twenty Six:
The Lords House drains the Houses of the Lord,
For Bishops Voices silencing the Word:
O Barthol'mew! Saint of their Kalendar!
What's worse, th'Ejection or the Massacre?
Then Culpepper, Glouster, and the Princess dy'd;
Nothing can live that interrupts an H*de.
O more than humane GLOSTER! Fate did shew
Thee but to Earth, and back again withdrew.
Then the Fat Scrivener doth begin to think
'Twas time to mix the Royal Blood with Ink.
Barkley that swore as oft as he had Toes,
Doth kneeling now her Chastity depose;
Just as the first French Card'nal could restore
Maiden-head to his Widdow, Niece, and Whore.
For Portion, if she could prove light, when weigh'd,
Four Millions shall within three years be paid;
To raise it, we must have a Naval War,
As if 'twere nothing but Tara-Tan-Tar:
Abroad all Princes disobliging first,
At home all Parties but the very worst.
To tell of Ireland, Scotland, Dunkirk, 's sad;
Or the King's Marr'age: but he thinks I'm mad:
And sweeter Creature never saw the Sun,
If we the King wish Monk, or Queen a Nun.
But a Dutch War shall all these Rumours still,
Bleed out these Humours, and our Purses fill;
Yet after four days Fight, they clearly saw
'Twas too much danger for a Sun-in-Law:
Hire him to leave, for six score Thousand pound:
So with the King's Drums Men for sleep compound.
But modest Sand***ch thought it might agree
With the State-Prudence, to do less than He;
And to excuse their timerousness and sloth,
They found how George might now be less than both.

First Smith must for Leghorn, with force enough
To venture back again, but not go through:
Beaufort is there, and to their dazling Eyes
The distance more the Object magnifies;
Yet this thy gain, that Smith his time should lose,
And for my Duke too, cannot interpose.
But fearing that our Navy, George to break,
Might yet not be sufficiently weak;
The Secretary, that had never yet
Intelligence, but from his own Gazette,
Discovers a great secret, fit to sell,
And pays himself for't, e're he would it tell;
Beaufort is in the Channel; Hixy here!
Doxy Thoulon! Beaufort is ev'ry where.
Herewith assembling the supreme Divan,
Where enters none but Devil, NED, and NAN;
And upon this pretence they straight design'd
The Fleet to sep'rate, and the World to blind:
Monk to the Dutch, and Rupert (here the Wench
Could not but smile) is destin'd to the French.
To write the Order, Bristol Clerk is chose;
One slit in's Pen, the other in his Nose;
For he first brought the News, it is his place;
He'll see the Fleet divided like his Face,
And through the cranny in his grisly part,
To the Dutch Chink Intelligence impart.
The Plot succeeds: The Dutch in haste prepar'd,
And poor Peel Garlick George's Arse they shar'd;
And then presuming of his certain wrack,
To help him late, they send for Rupert back.
Officious Will seem'd fittest, as afraid
Lest George should look too far into his trade.
At the first draught they pause with Statesmens care,
They write it full, then copy it as fair;
And then compare them, when at last it's sign'd,
Will soon his Purse-strings, but no Seal could find.
At night he sends it by the common Post,
To save the King of an Express the cost.
Lord, what adoe to pack one Letter hence!
Some Patents pass with less circumference.

Well George, in spite of them thou safe dost ride,
Lessen'd I hope in nought but thy backside;
For as to Reputation, this Retreat
Of thine exceeds their Victories so great:
Nor shalt thou stir from thence, by my consent,
Till thou hast made the Dutch and Them repent.
'Tis true, I want so long the Nuptial Gift,
But as I oft have done, I'll make a Shift;
Nor will I with vain pomp accost the Shore,
To try thy Valour at the Buoy i'th' Nore,
Fall to thy work there, George, as I do here;
Cherish the Valiant up, Cowards cashier:
See that the Men have Pay, and Beef, and Beer,
Find out the Cheats of the four Millioneer.
Out of the very Beer, they sell the Malt;
Powder of Powder, from powder'd Beef the Salt.
Put thy hand to the Tub, instead of Oxe,
They Victual with French Pork that hath the Pox.
Never such Cotqueans by small Arts to wring,
Ne'er such ill Huswives in the managing!
Pursers at Sea know fewer Cheats than they,
Marriners on Shore less madly spend their Pay.
See that thou hast new Sails thy self, and spoil
All their Sea-market, and their Cable-coyl.
Look that Good Chaplains on each Ship do wait,
Nor the Sea-Diocess be impropriate:
Look to the sick and wounded Pris'ners; all
Is prize; they rob even the Hospital,
Recover back the Prizes too; in vain
We fight, if all be taken that is ta'en,

Now by our Coast the Dutchmen, like a Flight
Of feeding Ducks, ev'ning and morning light;
How our Land-Hectors tremble, void of sense,
As if they came straight to transport them hence:
Some Sheep are stol'n; the Kingdom's all array'd,
And ev'n Presbyters now called out for aid.
They wish ev'n George divided to command,
One half of Him at Sea, th'other on Land.

What's that I see! Ah 'tis my George agen!
It seems they in sev'n weeks have Rigg'd him then.
The curious Heav'ns with Lightning him surrounds,
To view him, and his Name in Thunder sounds.
But with the same swift goes, Their Navy's near:
So e're we hunt, the Keeper shoots the Deer.
Stay Heav'n a while, and thou shalt see him sail,
And George too, he can thunder, lighten, hail.
Happy the time that I e'er wedded George.
The Sword of England, and the Holland Scourge.
Avaunt Rotterdam-Dog, Ruyter avaunt,
Thou Water-Rat, thou Sharke, thou Cormorant.
I'll teach thee to shoot Scissers: I'le repair
Each Rope thou losest George, out of this Hair.
'Tis strong and course enough; I'll hem this shift,
E're thou shalt lack a Sail, and lie a drift:
Bring home the old ones; I again will Sew,
And darn them up, to be as good as new.

What, twice disabled! Never such a thing!
Now Soveraign help him that brought in the King.
Guard thy Posteriors, George, e're all be gone,
Though Jury-Masts, thou'st Jury-Buttocks none.
Courage! How bravely (whet with this disgrace)
He turns, and Bullets spits in Ruyter's face!
They fly, they fly their Fleet doth now divide,
But they discard their Trump: our Trump is Hide.
Where are you now, De Ruyter, with your Bears?
See where your Merchants burn about your Ears.
Fire out the Wasps, George from the hollow Trees,
Cramm'd with the Honey of our English Bees.
Ah now they're paid for Guinney: e're they steer
To the Gold Coast, they find it hotter here.
Turn all your Ships to Stoves e're you set forth,
To warm your Traffick in the frozen North.
Ah Sandwich! had thy conduct been the same,
Bergen had seen a less but richer Flame;
Nor Ruyter liv'd new Battel to repeat,
And oftner beaten be, than we can beat.
Scarce had George leisure, after all his pain,
To tie his Breeches; Ruyter's out again:
Thrice in one Year! Why sure this Man is wood:
Beat him like Stock-fish, or he'll ne're be good.
I see them both again prepare to try;
The first shot through each other with the Eye.
Then—But the Ruling Providence that must
With humane Projects play, as Wind with Dust,
Raises a storm. So Constables a fray
Knock down; and send them both well cuff'd away.
Plant now New England Firs in English Oak,
Build your Ships Ribs proof to the Cannon-stroke:
To get the Fleet to Sea, exhaust the Land;
Let longing Princes pine for the Command:
Strong March-panes! Wafer lights! so thin a puff
Of angry Air can ruin all that Huff:
So Champions having shar'd the Lists and Sun,
The Judge throws down's Award, and they have done.
For shame come home George, 'tis for thee too much
To fight at once with Heaven and the Dutch.
Woe's me! what see I next! alas! the fate
I see of England, and its utmost date.
Those Flames of theirs at which we fondly smile,
Kindle like Torches our Sepulchral Pile.
War, Fire, and Plague against us all conspire;
We the War, God the Plague, who rais'd the Fire?
See how Men all like Ghosts, while London burns,
Wander, and each over his Ashes mourns!
Curs'd be the Man that first begat this War;
In an ill hour, under a Blazing Star.
For Others sport two Nations fight a Prize;
Between them both, Religion wounded dies.
So of first Troy, the angry Gods unpaid,
Raz'd the Foundations which themselves had laid.