The Dutch embargo upon their state fleet, or, Nevves from Holland a poem / by John Crouch.

THE Dutch Embargo, Upon their State-Fleet; OR, Nevvs from Holland.

WHere are our Mighty Dutch? still Weather-bound▪ Although the Wind has mov'd the Compass round? Are the scar'd Foxes lurking in their Holes, Or working under-ground, like politick Moles? Appear, and open your vsurious Baggs, Pluck up your Breeches, or pull down your Flaggs. Come with your Giant too, you sent of late To mince our coyne, and magnifie your State. Is old Trumps broome (hung up to sweep the Seas) Imploy'd to brush off swarmes of Belgick fleas? Are you asleep? or has our floating Wood Dam'd up the Channells of your Seas, and Blood? When the warm season calls you out to meet, Has your cold Terrors frozen in your Fleet?

If you have any right, or courage, come, We shall allow you Mare liberum. We'l release all our glorious Selden writ, And wave the waighty moments of his Wit: The Sea (made by our Cause, and Valour, wide) Is narrow'd by your Cowardize, and Pride, You make a Mare clausum, what? must we Break up your Bankes to set the Ocean free? Let's to that Controversie put an end: Justice, or Warre; be Eenemy or Freind: Ye know what paines your learned Grotius took De jure belli; fight, or burn his Book. Are the States Generall dumb by consent, At one Ʋote of a loyal Parliament? Amaz'd that our State Chymists can afford Such vast supplies, coyn Millians with a word: Is Amsterdam, which us'd to be so crank, (Boasting the rich Mines of her moun'tenous Bank) Fal'ne sick (not of her Pestilence) but guilt, Having no innocent blood left to be spilt? Or (what is worse) is the transplanted Plague Remov'd from Amsterdam unto the Hague? Where the great Trades-men all their Plots disburse, Unite the People, and divide their Purse. All Artless grown? no Pilot fit to steer? Where are your souls, neither in Heau'ne nor here? Do Gunpowder and Brandee mix in vaine To thaw the frozen Region of your braine? Are ye afraid the Brittish Oakes ye bought (Thinking to break our Ribs before we fought) Should with your Guilt sink, or your Iudgment burn, Or by instinct of Simpathy returne?

As once our Phenix (which a fatal hour Had captivated by unequal power) From midst of all your Screech-Owles took her wing, And flew home, to enjoy a kinder Spring: An act rare as the Bird, the English will (Though sometimes Rebells) yet be English still: The wiser sound this dis-harmonious pause. Your Ships are strong, your hearts weak like your Cause, VVhere is that fury sunk your Soveraignes Fleets Wrap'd all in flameing Sayles for Winding sheets? While (freind to both) th' amazed Brittish shore, Trembled to see her locks bedew'd with Gore. None to succeed the generous Vantrump, Who fiercely grappl'd with th' omnipotent Rump? (For so deluded Wights, they thought t' have bin, But Heaven is more omnipotent than Sin) That both were stout, is no prodigious thing, Rebells will fight with Rebells, or a King. Restore what ye have gain'd by Fraud and Stealth; Pyrats and Robbers of both Indias wealth, Hire not the Blacks your Neighbours to betray, Whites in your face, in soule more Blacks than they; Nor catch the Guiny natives with your Ginnes, Reform'd more Heathen by your Christian sins. When will a Dutch-man in one vessell hold His Honesty and Trade, his Faith, and Gold? While man has mem'ry, may that hellish Plott Of curs'd Amboyna never be forgott: Where you pretend a treacherous surprize, First to betray, and then to tyrannize, Racks, Flames, and Tortures, all so exquisit; Seem'd not to shew your Mallice but your Wit:

By tedious Torments, forcing us confess What we ne're thought, Made guilty by distresse: For after strict search (and a Dutch mans Eye Rub'd with revenge is quick as Iealousie) Envy could find no weapons of offence; Nothing ro storm your walls but Innocence! But you that Jnnocent blood in peace have spilt, Doubtless delight to sacrifice to Guilt! Are all the Men and Ships destroy'd last Warre? Sunk in your mem'ries too, no warning scarre? Could a poore Epileptick Body (dead Without the living infleuence of a Head) Your numerous, and experienc'd Navies beat, Or force them to the shame of a Retreat? And shall not Brittains Monarchy doe more Then it's sick Anarchie had done before? Convince us why Republicks Priviledg'd are T'vsurpe the wide Sea, and the wider Ayre? Is the whole Eastern World your propper due, Which Rome ne're had, when she had Us, and you? Yet your Republick is a divers Thing, The Romans had two Consuls though no King, They durst not start too farr, resolv'd to be Within the prospect of a Monarchie: The prudence of those sober Ages knew Greater the Monster was, the more heads grew. Two Persons Rul'd, with one misterious Will; The Roman State was thus Monarchik still: Two Consuls Raign'd, One the whole Worke did do▪ Rul'd both the Publick, and his fellow too. When dire Confusions must in time restore You to the Thraldomes ye bewail'd before.

Did the communicative Sun create All Spices, to make Insence for one State? Your Pride, and Auerice will worke your bane; Where no satiety is, there's little Gaine! Graspe what ye well may hold, 'Tis they extend Too farr, who reach their Ruine, not their End: Though you hold forth a single joynted Hand, Your fingers start, and disunited stand. We all admire Divinity in One, But not in every Concrete Vnion. You think the Narrow Seas for us too much, Yet the whole Globe too little for the Dutch. Good Freinds Print Bookes, and let the Mapps alone, Accoumpt not what you Sell, but buy, your owne. Thus, while fair Liberty you give, and crave, You would be Free, to make the World a Slave. Tell me (then Low-Dutch) when you were as bigg With Common-Wealth, as ever Sow with Pigg, Who your blest Midwife was; I trow, a Queen, Or you had never High, and Mighty been. Who was it rais'd you to this monstrous Height? Taught ye at first, not to Rebell, but Fight? You have forgot our Sydnies, and our Veres, Our Monc••, and Oxford, Commoners and Peeres; Who shed their rich blood for your Infant State; First to procure your Freedom, than your Hate. Doe not so farr degenerate, to conclude Your utmost Period with Ingratitude. Ingratitude? O Heavens! Has not that word, An edge as sharp as your old Generalls sword; Does not that brave heroick Prince's Ghost? Stare in your faces? tell you all is lost?

If you with England fight or shall invade Her Royal Rights, or check her Popular Trade; If you by Spannish Gabells shall annoy Your Fellow Merchants; and devest his Boy. Tell me ye Men of breeding is it meet Or pleasant for the Head to kiss the feet? Does that new Blood quarter'd in every veine, His or the High and mighties honour staine? Know the young Prince is more than Orange, now, He may remit, Great Brittaine must not bow, Be just to Him, and Vs, the Quarrell ends, Silver will soder all, and make us freinds. May never Pest from Amsterdam remove, Till ye restore him to your Faith and Love! Meane time our Loyall Duke does kindly waite, To know the pleasures of the Mighty State, Hopeing this favour youl retaliate too, To send him word what Amsterdam will do

FINIS.