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         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         
           1663
        
      
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         A65998
         Wing W2126
         ESTC R19144
         12561082
         ocm 12561082
         63180
         
           
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             An essay upon the victory obtained by His Royal Highness the Duke of York, against the Dutch, upon June 3, 1655 by the author of Iter Boreale.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             Printed by A. Maxwell for Fabian Stedman ...,
             London :
             1663.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
             Broadside.
             Attributed to Robert Wild. cf. NUC pre-1956.
             In verse.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           James -- II, -- King of England, 1633-1701.
           Broadsides
        
      
    
     
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           AN
           ESSAY
           Upon
           the
           late
           VICTORY
           obtained
           by
           His
           Royal
           Highness
           the
           Duke
           of
           York
           ,
           Against
           the
           DUTCH
           ,
           upon
           
             Iune
             3.
             1665.
             
          
        
         
           By
           the
           Author
           of
           
             Iter
             Boreale
          
           .
        
         
           
             GOUT
             !
             I
             conjure
             thee
             by
             the
             powerful
             Names
          
           
             Of
             CHARLES
             and
             IAMES
             ,
             and
             their
             victorious
             Fames
             ,
          
           
             On
             this
             great
             Day
             set
             all
             thy
             Prisoners
             free
             ,
          
           
             (
             Triumphs
             command
             a
             Goal-Delivery
             )
          
           
             Set
             them
             all
             free
             ,
             leave
             not
             a
             limping
             Toe
          
           
             From
             my
             
               Lord
               Chancellors
            
             to
             mine
             below
             ;
          
           
             Unless
             thou
             giv'st
             us
             leave
             this
             day
             to
             dance
             ,
          
           
             Thou'
             rt
             not
             th'
             old
             Loyal
             Gout
             ,
             but
             com'st
             from
             France
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             done
             ,
             my
             grief
             obeys
             the
             Sovereign
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             I
             feel
             a
             Bonfire
             in
             my
             joints
             ,
             which
             warms
          
           
             And
             thaws
             the
             frozen
             jelly
             ;
             I
             am
             grown
          
           
             Twenty
             years
             younger
             ;
             Victory
             hath
             done
          
           
             What
             puzled
             Physick
             :
             Give
             the
             Dutch
             a
             Rout
             ,
          
           
             
               Probatum
               est
            
             ,
             't
             will
             cure
             an
             English
             Gout
             .
          
        
         
           
             Come
             then
             ,
             put
             nimble
             Socks
             upon
             my
             Feet
             ,
          
           
             They
             shall
             be
             Skippers
             to
             our
             
               Royal
               Fleet
            
             ,
          
           
             Which
             now
             returnes
             in
             dances
             on
             our
             Seas
             ,
          
           
             A
             Conqueror
             above
             Hyperbole's
             .
          
           
             A
             Sea
             which
             with
             Bucephalus
             doth
             scorn
          
           
             Less
             than
             an
             Alexander
             should
             be
             born
          
           
             On
             her
             proud
             Back
             ;
             but
             to
             a
             Loyal
             Rein
          
           
             Yields
             foaming
             Mouth
             ,
             and
             bends
             her
             curled
             Main
             :
          
           
             And
             conscious
             that
             she
             is
             too
             strait
             a
             stage
          
           
             For
             Charles
             to
             act
             on
             ,
             swell'd
             with
             Loyal
             Rage
             ,
          
           
             Urgeth
             the
             Belgick
             and
             the
             Gallick
             shore
          
           
             To
             yield
             more
             room
             ,
             Her
             Master
             must
             have
             more
             .
          
           
             Ingratefull
             Neighbours
             !
             't
             was
             our
             kinder
             Isle
             ,
          
           
             With
             Her
             own
             Bloud
             ,
             made
             Your
             Geneva
             Stile
          
           
             Writ
             in
             small
             Print
             [
             Poor
             States
             and
             sore
             perplext
             ]
          
           
             Swell
             to
             the
             [
             
               HIGH
               AND
               MIGHTY
               LORDS
            
             ]
             in
             Text
             ;
          
           
             And
             can
             ye
             be
             such
             Snakes
             to
             sting
             that
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             Which
             in
             Your
             Winter
             gave
             You
             Warmth
             and
             Rest
             ?
          
           
             Poor
             
               Flemish
               Frogs
            
             ,
             if
             Your
             Ambition
             thirst
          
           
             To
             swell
             to
             English
             Greatness
             ,
             You
             will
             burst
             .
          
           
             Could
             You
             believe
             Our
             Royal
             Head
             would
             fail
          
           
             To
             Nod
             those
             down
             who
             fell
             before
             our
             Tail
             ?
          
           
             Or
             could
             Your
             Amsterdam
             by
             her
             commands
             ,
          
           
             Make
             London
             carry
             Coals
             to
             warm
             her
             Hands
             ?
          
           
             A
             bold
             Attempt
             !
             Pray
             practise
             it
             no
             more
             ;
          
           
             We
             sav'd
             our
             Coals
             ,
             yet
             gave
             you
             fire
             good
             store
             .
          
           
             It
             is
             enough
             ;
             The
             righteous
             Heavens
             have
             now
          
           
             Judg'd
             the
             Grand
             Quarrel
             betwixt
             us
             and
             you
             .
          
           
             The
             Sentence
             is
             —
             The
             Surface
             must
             be
             ours
             ,
          
           
             But
             for
             the
             bottom
             of
             the
             Sea
             ,
             't
             is
             yours
             :
          
           
             Thither
             your
             Opdam
             with
             some
             thousands
             ,
             are
          
           
             Gone
             down
             to
             take
             possession
             of
             your
             share
             .
          
        
         
           
             Methinks
             I
             hear
             great
             Triton
             sound
             a
             Call
             ,
          
           
             And
             through
             th'
             affrighted
             Ocean
             summon
             all
          
           
             His
             scaly
             Regiments
             ,
             to
             come
             and
             take
          
           
             Part
             of
             that
             Feast
             which
             Charles
             Their
             King
             doth
             make
             ;
          
           
             Where
             they
             may
             glut
             Revenge
             ,
             quit
             the
             old
             score
             ,
          
           
             And
             feed
             on
             those
             who
             fed
             on
             them
             before
             ;
          
           
             Whom
             when
             they
             have
             digested
             ,
             who
             can
             find
          
           
             Whether
             they
             're
             fish
             ,
             or
             flesh
             ,
             or
             what
             's
             their
             Kind
             ?
          
           
             
               Van-God
               ,
               Van-Ling
               ,
               Van-Herring
            
             will
             be
             cry'd
          
           
             About
             their
             Streets
             ;
             All
             Fish
             ,
             so
             Dutchified
             .
          
           
             Their
             States
             may
             find
             their
             Capers
             in
             their
             Dish
             ,
          
           
             And
             meet
             their
             Admirals
             in
             Butter'd
             Fish.
          
           
             Thus
             they
             'l
             imbody
             ,
             and
             encrease
             their
             Crew
             ;
          
           
             A
             cunning
             way
             to
             make
             each
             Dutch-man
             two
             .
          
           
             And
             on
             themselves
             ,
             they
             now
             must
             feed
             or
             fast
             ;
          
           
             Their
             Herring
             Trade
             is
             brought
             unto
             its
             Last
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             KING
             .
          
           
             GReat
             Sir
             ,
             Belov'd
             of
             God
             and
             Man
             ,
             admit
          
           
             My
             Loyal
             zeal
             to
             run
             before
             my
             Wit.
          
           
             This
             is
             my
             Pens
             miscarriage
             ,
             not
             a
             Birth
             ;
          
           
             Her
             haste
             hath
             made
             her
             bring
             blind
             Puppies
             forth
             .
          
           
             My
             aims
             in
             this
             attempt
             ,
             are
             to
             provoke
             ,
          
           
             And
             kindle
             flames
             more
             Noble
             ,
             by
             my
             smoak
             ;
          
           
             My
             wisp
             of
             Straw
             may
             set
             great
             Wood
             on
             Fire
             ,
          
           
             And
             my
             weak
             Breath
             Your
             Organs
             may
             inspire
             .
          
           
             Amongst
             those
             Flags
             y'
             have
             taken
             from
             the
             Dutch
             ,
          
           
             Command
             your
             Denham
             to
             hang
             up
             his
             Crutch
             :
          
           
             He
             is
             a
             man
             both
             of
             his
             Hands
             and
             Feet
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             great
             Numbers
             can
             Your
             Navy
             meet
             ,
          
           
             His
             quicker
             Eye
             Your
             Conquest
             can
             survey
             ;
          
           
             His
             Hand
             ,
             
             York's
             Temples
             Crown
             with
             flourishing
             Bay
             ,
          
           
             Waller
             (
             great
             Poet
             and
             true
             Prophet
             too
             )
          
           
             Whos
             's
             curious
             Pencil
             in
             Rich
             Colours
             drew
          
           
             The
             Type
             of
             this
             grand
             Triumph
             for
             your
             view
             ,
          
           
             (
             The
             Fishers
             (
             like
             their
             Herrings
             )
             bleeding
             new
             )
          
           
             With
             the
             same
             Hand
             shall
             give
             the
             World
             the
             sights
          
           
             Of
             what
             it
             must
             expect
             when
             England
             Fights
             .
          
           
             That
             Son
             and
             Heir
             of
             Pindars
             Muse
             and
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Your
             modest
             Cowley
             ,
             with
             Your
             Breath
             will
             flame
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             those
             
               Belgick
               Beasts
            
             ,
             who
             live
             ,
             aspire
          
           
             To
             fall
             Your
             Sacrifice
             in
             his
             pure
             Fire
             .
          
           
             He
             shall
             proclaim
             Our
             IAMES
             great
             
             Neptune's
             Wonder
             .
          
           
             And
             ,
             like
             a
             Iove
             ,
             Fighting
             in
             Clouds
             and
             Thunder
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Licensed
        
         
           
             
               Iune
               16.
               1665.
               
            
          
           
             ROGER
             L'ESTRANGE
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           Lindon
           ,
           Printed
           by
           
             A.
             Maxwell
          
           for
           
             Fabian
             Stedman
          
           ,
           at
           his
           shop
           in
           St.
           Dunstans
           Church-yard
           in
           Fleetstreet
           ,
           1665.
           
        
      
    
  

