THE Heavens look big with wonder, and informe
Our Expectations of some present Storm.
French, Dutch and Dane too, all at once? why then
'Tis time to show that We are English Men.
They say, at Foot-ball Three to one is odds;
But this is nothing, for the Cause is Gods.
Have at' em all, we care not where we come,
Since Gracious Heaven is reconcil'd at Home,
Courage brave BRITTANS then, We do no more
But fight with those whom We have beat before.
And now methinks, much better may We, since
We fight for such an All accomplisht Prince,
Who the World's Conquest is as fair to get
As Alexander (like himself) the Great.
Talk not of Ten to One, pittiful story,
Alas the odds does but encrease the Glory:
Besides the English from their Ancestrie
Derive themselves the heirs of Victory
Where should the Sons of Honour, if they die,
But in the Field, the bed of Honour lie?
The World will know, when time shall serve, we dare
Come out, and meet that Prince of Pitch and Tarre;
Bring your Wind-selling Laplanders too, do
Sure We shall deal with ye, and board ye too;
And you will tell us, when this comes to pass
Your Bergen bu's'ness no such bargain was.
Danes? We don't fear ye; come, alass ye know
Our Women beat ye once, and so may now.
Nor value we that Kingdom of Kick shawes,
We come not to receive, but give them Lawes;
We shall provide 'em such a Frigaze
Of Legs and Armes they'l scarce be glad to see.
They now must understand with whom they cope,
A mighty Prince, and not a Myter'd Pope;
One that will otherwise the matter handle,
With Glittering Sword, and not Bell, Book and Candle:
One that shall Anathematize ye worse,
Not to pronounce but execute your Curse:
He'l bring ye Jeggerie home to your door:
Instead of Bulls you'l hear his Canons roar;
And I make bold to tell ye in the close
Although no Popes, we'l make ye kiss our Toes.
An English Monarch (Mounsieur) no new thing,
Has sent his Son to fetch him a French King:
If ye suspect, or scruple our report,
Enquire at Poictiers, Cressie, Agin-Court,
That place never to be forgotten, where
The Prisoners more then we that took'em were:
The French shall know it too, as we advance,
'Tis We, not they, fight for the King of France.
Ye boast of Gold and Silver, and such stuffe,
We'l bring ye Pockets for it sure enough.
And if we meet ye on the foaming source
VVe'l have a word or too of deep Discourse.
A fig for France or any that accords
VVith those Low-Country Leather-Apern Lords.

LONDON, Printed for the Author, 1665/6.

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