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         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         
           1665
        
      
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         A65999
         Wing W2128A
         ESTC R37217
         16271679
         ocm 16271679
         105213
         
           
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             A gratulatory verse upon our late glorious victory over the Dutch by the author of Iter Boreale.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           1 broadside.
           
             Printed at London and re-printed at Edinburgh,
             [Edinburgh] :
             1665.
          
           
             Attributed to Wild by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints.
             Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           A
           GRATULATORY
           VERSE
           Upon
           Our
           late
           Glorious
           VICTORY
           OVER
           THE
           DUTCH
           ,
        
         
           By
           the
           Author
           of
           
             Iter
             Boreale
          
           .
        
         
           
             GOut
             !
             I
             conjure
             thee
             by
             the
             powerful
             Names
          
           
             Of
             CHARLES
             and
             JAMES
             ,
             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
             obeyes
             the
             Sovereign
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             I
             feel
             a
             Bonfire
             in
             my
             joints
             ,
             which
             warms
          
           
             And
             thaws
             the
             frozen
             jelly
             ;
             I
             am
             grown
          
           
             Twenty
             years
             yonger
             ;
             Victory
             hath
             done
          
           
             What
             puzled
             Physick
             :
             Give
             the
             Dutch
             a
             Rout
             ,
          
           
             
               Probatum
               est
            
             ,
             't
             will
             cure
             an
             English
             Gout
             .
          
        
         
           
             Come
             then
             ,
             gut
             nimble
             Socks
             upon
             my
             Feet
             ,
          
           
             They
             shall
             be
             Skippers
             to
             our
             
               Royal
               Fleet
            
             ,
          
           
             Which
             now
             returns
             in
             dances
             on
             our
             Seas
             ,
          
           
             A
             Conqueror
             above
             Hyperbole's
             .
          
           
             A
             Sea
             which
             with
             Bucephalus
             doth
             scorn
          
           
             Lesse
             than
             an
             Alexander
             should
             be
             born
          
           
             Oh
             her
             proud
             Back
             ;
             But
             to
             a
             Royal
             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
             ,
          
           
             Ingrateful
             Neighbours
             !
             't
             was
             Our
             kinder
             Isle
             ,
          
           
             With
             her
             own
             Blood
             ,
             made
             Your
             Geneva
             Stile
          
           
             Writ
             in
             small
             Print
             [
             Poor
             States
             and
             fore
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             Me
             thinks
             I
             hear
             great
             Triton
             found
             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-Cod
               ,
               Van-Ling
               ,
               Van-Herring
            
             will
             be
             cry'd
          
           
             About
             their
             Streets
             ;
             All
             Fish
             ,
             so
             Dutchifi'd
             .
          
           
             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
               JAMES
               great
               Neptune's
               Wonder
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               a
               Jove
               Fighting
               in
               Clouds
               and
               Thunder
               .
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Printed
           at
           London
           ,
           and
           Re-printed
           at
           Edinburgh
           ,
           1665.
           
        
      
    
  

