XI.

Fame is not grounded on success,
Tho’ victories were Caesar’s glory;
Lost battles make not Pompey less,
But left him stiled great in story. 
Malicious fate does oft devise
To beat the brave, and fool the wise.

XII.

Charles in the first Dutch war stood fair
To have been Sov’reign of the deep,
When Opdam blew up in the air,
Had not his Highness gone to sleep: 
Our fleet slack’d sails, fearing his waking,
The Dutch had else been in sad taking.

XIII.

The Bergen business was well laid,
Tho’ we paid dear for that design;
Had we not three days parling staid,
The Dutch fleet there, Charles, had been thine: 
Tho’ the false Dane agreed to fell ’em,
He cheated us, and saved Skellum.

XIV.

Had not Charles sweetly chous’d the States,
By Bergen-baffle grown more wise;
And made ’em shit as small as rats,
By their rich Smyrna fleet’s surprise: 
Had haughty Holmes, but call’d in Spragg,
Hans had been put into a bag.

XV.

Mists, storms, short victuals, adverse winds,
And once the navy’s wise division,
Defeated Charles’s best designs,
’Till he became his foes derision: 
But he had swing’d the Dutch at Chatham,
Had he had ships but to come at ’em.

XVI.

Our Black-Heath host, without dispute,
(Rais’d, put on board, why? no man knows)
Must Charles have render’d absolute
Over his subjects, or his foes: 
Has not the French King made us fools,
By taking Maestricht with our tools?

XVII.

  But Charles, what could thy policy be,
    To run so many sad disasters;
  To join thy fleet with false d’Estrees
    To make the French of Holland masters? 
  Was’t Carewell, brother James, or Teague,
  That made thee break the Triple League?

XVIII.

Could Robin Viner have foreseen
The glorious triumphs of his master;
The Wool-Church statue Gold had been,
Which now is made of Alabaster. 
But wise men think had it been wood,
’Twere for a bankrupt King too good.

XIX.

Those that the fabric well consider. 
Do of it diversly discourse;
Some pass their censure on the rider,
Others their judgment on the horse. 
Most say, the steed’s a goodly thing,
But all agree, ’tis a lewd King.

XX.

By the lord mayor and his grave coxcombs,
Freeman of London, Charles is made;
Then to Whitehall a rich Gold box comes,
Which was bestow’d on the French jade[2]: 
But wonder not it should be so, sirs,
When Monarchs rank themselves with Grocers.

XXI.

Cringe, scrape no more, ye city-fops,
Leave off your feasting and fine speeches;
Beat up your drums, shut up your shops,
The courtiers then will kiss your breeches. 
Arm’d, tell the Popish Duke that rules,
You’re free-born subjects, not French mules.