By your own sword our just revenge be wrought. To sum up all ... let your religion be As your allegiance--maskt hypocrisie Until when Charles shall be composed in dust Perfum'd with epithets of good and just. He saved--incensed Heaven may have forgot-- To afford one act of mercy to a Scot: Unless that Scot deny himself and do What's easier far--Renounce his nation too. JOHN DRYDEN. (1631-1700.) XVIII. SATIRE ON THE DUTCH. Originally printed in broadside form, being written in the year 1662. It was bitterly resented by the Dutch. As needy gallants, in the scriv'ner's hands, Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgag'd lands; The first fat buck of all the season'd sent, And keeper takes no fee in compliment; The dotage of some Englishmen is such, To fawn on those, who ruin them, the Dutch. They shall have all, rather than make a war With those, who of the same religion are. The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too; Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. Some are resolv'd, not to find out the cheat, But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat. What injuries soe'er upon us fall, Yet still the same religion answers all. Religion wheedl'd us to civil war, Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now wou'd spare. Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true, They have no more religion, faith! than you. Int'rest's the God they worship in their state, And we, I take it, have not much of that. Well monarchies may own religion's name, But states are atheists in their very frame. They share a sin; and such proportions fall, That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all. Think on their rapine, falsehood, cruelty, And that what once they were, they still wou'd be. To one well-born th' affront is worse and more, When he's abus'd and baffl'd by a boor. With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do; They've both ill nature and ill manners too. Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation; For they were bred ere manners were in fashion: And their new commonwealth has set them free Only from honour and civility. Venetians do not more uncouthly ride, Than did their lubber state mankind bestride. Their sway became 'em with as ill a mien, As their own paunches swell above their chin. Yet is their empire no true growth but humour, And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour. As Cato did in Africk fruits display; Let us before our eyes their Indies lay: All loyal English will like him conclude; Let Caesar live, and Carthage be subdu'd. XIX. MACFLECKNOE.