Whofe kindness fent what does their malice feem,
By leffer ills the greater to redeem.
Nor can we this weak fhow'r a tempeft call,
But drops of heat, that in the fun-shine fall.
You have already weary'd fortune fo,
She cannot farther be your friend or foe;
But fits all breathlefs, and admires to feel
A fate fo weighty, that it stops our wheel.
In all things elfe above our humble fate,
Your equal mind yet fwells not into state,
But, like fome mountain in those happy ifles,
Where in perpetual spring young nature smiles,
Your greatnefs fhews: no horror to affright,
But trees for shade, and flowers to court the fight:
Sometimes the hill fubmits itself a while
In small descents, which do its height beguile;
And sometimes mounts, but fo as billows play,
Whose rise not hinders but makes short our way.
Your brow, which does no fear of thunder know,
Sees rowling tempefts vainly beat below;
And, like Olympus' top, the impreffion wears
Of love and friendship writ in former years.
Yet, unimpair'd with labors, or with time,
Your age but feems to a new youth to climb.
Thus heav'nly bodies do our time beget,
And measure change, but share no part of it.
And ftill it fhall without a weight increase,
Like this new-year, whofe motions never cease.
For fince the glorious course you have begun
Is led by Charles, as that is by the fun,
It must both weightless and immortal prove,
Because the centre of it is above.
Written in the YEAR 1662.
A Court the rich knaves that their mort
S needy gallants, in the fcrivener's hands,
Court the rich knaves that gripe their mort
The firft fat buck of all the feafon's fent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
The dotage of fome Englishmen is fuch,
To fawn on thofe, who ruin them, the Dutch.
They shall have all, rather than make a war
With thofe, who of the fame religion are.
The Straits, the Guiney-trade, the herrings too;
Nay, to keep friendship, they fhall pickle you.
Some are refolv'd not to find out the cheat,
But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.
What injuries foe'er upon us fall,
Yet ftill the fame religion answers all.
Religion wheedled us to civil war,
Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now wou'd fpare.
Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true,
They have no more religion, faith! than you.
Intereft's the god they worship in their state,
And we, I take it, have not much of that.
Well monarchies may own religion's name,
But ftates are atheists in their
They share a fin; and fuch proportions fall,
That, like a ftink, 'tis nothing to them all.
Think on their rapine, falfhood, cruelty,
And that what once they were, they still wou'd be.
To one well-born th'affront is worse and more,
When he's abus'd and baffl'd by a boor.
With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do;
They've both ill nature and ill manners too.
I may they boaft themselves an ancient nation; For they were bred ere manners were in fashion:
And their new commonwealth has fet them free Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
Than did their lubber state mankind beftride.
Their fway became 'em with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches fwell above their chin,
Yet is their empire no true growth but humour,
And only two kings touch can cure the tumour,
As Cato, fruits of Afric did difplay;
Let us before our eyes their Indies lay:
All loyal English will like him conclude;
Let Cæfar live, and Carthage be subdu’d.
Memorable VICTORY gained by the DUKE over the HOLLANDERS, June the 3d, 1665.
Her JOURNEY afterwards into the NORTH,
THEN, for our fakes, your hero you refign'd To fwelling feas, and every faithless wind; you releas'd his courage, and fet free
A valour fatal to the enemy;
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