The glorious and living cinque-ports of our fortunate island thrice happy in the persons of His Sacred Majestie, the illustrious and puissant Prince, His Royall Highnesse James Duke of Yorke, the two victorious and loyall generals, their united excellencies, Prince Rupert, and George Duke of Albermarle : the heroick and daring captaines in this signall victory : to whom the author humbly presents this following epinikeon / Edm. Gayton.

To the Valiant, Vigorous, Loyal, and Succes∣ful SOULDIERS in the Royal Navy, Red-coats, White-coats, & others, wherewith the GENERALS take Dutch-men and Ships, as they take Whiting, Haddock, and Mackarel with pieces of Cloth.

NOw you have plaid, brave Blades, your parts, Let us play ours, us of the Arts, Who now in Regulation high, Do fling our Caps, like you, to th' skie. We are distinguish'd by our Gowns, As you in Squadrons on the Downs; And in our new and disciplin'd joyes, Know Graduats plaudits from the Boyes. Our way of praises are the Hum, Which you out-vapor with the Drumm. We burn the Faggots, piles of Wood, And you burn Ships, which is as good,

And Holland Towns, for the poor skellum Lament their tosted Cheese, and Smell'um. The Dog dayes did not hurt your Butter, So much as MONK encountring Ruyter, Who did so bang, and thwack, and thump You both, you cant tell which is Trump: Nay'tis soft whisperd, that De-Witte Is stept aside, that lesuit, And proud and politick Machevael, To take some hempen Cordial, He might have staid at home, the people Would fain have truss'd him in the Steeple, For he deceiv'd them with his lies, Flying reports, for which he flies: De-Wit's out-witted, for he thought That Albemarle would nere have fought, And Rupert both, in one tall good Ship, but in several Squadrons stood; Nor ever did they dream, Sr. Robert Should have the plundring of their Cupbord, For all the frokens, and the froes, Most Brawny Wenches fat as Does, Do curse him day and night, for they Make houses clean, we clean away.

Oh slave, (saies Mistris Vandermast) I'me burnt even quite below the Wast: Holland was never in such plight; They thought it Goshen, 'twas so light. Mourning there is, for cuts and slashes, Yet not in sack, nor cloth, but ashes; For those S^r Roberts men of Cockets Put up in Belly, and in pockets.

I think, poor Hogen Mogen Ninnies, That Holmes has paid you for your Guinyes, And for his polt o'th' pate; for Schelling Can tell how divelshly he fell in, And made a Bone-fire of a Dorpe that day, By which his Souldiers ran away, 'Twas better so, then longer stay.

FINIS.