Two of the stoutest champions did confute, Deserving to be (by their own confession) His countryes honour call’d; twas their expression. No charming syren could his ears entice; Nor tempting Venus him allure to vice; Nor Cleophis with her bewiching eyes Ere put a period to his victories. War was his mistris, he did her embrace; She hath a princely and majestick face; She nurst him, bred him, made him her delight, Conducted him in many a dreadful fight; He was her darling, she in him took pleasure, He was her chiefest and her onely treasure. Though threats on threats, and promises succeeded From Royalty, yet he them never heeded. Threats could not drive him, nor allurements high Ere make him part with his integrity. No sceptick in religion was he found, His head and heart and principles were sound. Constant beyond compare, and to his nation A faithfull servant in his generation: No faction would he heed, nor plots contrive, Nor did he wish that ever they should thrive; And midst our various changes still kept free, Hating cold dullnesse, base neutrality. Riches he valued not, nor them respect, Nor glorious titles ever did affect. Armes and the Arts did wondrously comply In him to make a perfect harmony; In both admir’d, in both he did excell, And liv’d and dy’d without a parallell. His valour was diffused, and now dead, He the Tenth Worthy may be reckoned The civick, murall, and the navall crown He has deserv’d, all due to his renown. In peace he was a Seneca, in war He out-did Mars, still prov’d a conqueror. No chamber-musick squeaking in the night, Nor noyce of vialls did him much delight; The deep-mouth’d canons thundring in his eares Was unto him the musick of the spheres: Those bore the base, the whistling bullets they Made up the treble on a fighting day; Small shot division play’d, whose nimble motion Made many a soul drink up a sleepy potion: This was the musick most did cheer his spirit, And made him justly so much prayse to merit. His noble, lively, active, vigorous fire Ne’re quencht in him untill he did expire. Oh! how my soul bemones my countryes losse, Her onely genius gone; oh! ’tis a crosse Beyond compare, now hardly felt, but when Our sins a war on us shall bring agen, Who then shall stand i’ th’ gap? His noble arme Did quail our home-bred, forreign foes disarme. May those succeed Elisha-like inherit A double portion of Elijah’s spirit. The Hollander in bloudy lines can write What harms he did them by the God of might; The Portigalls, as every one doth know, Their peace, their plenty, and their traffique owe Unto his worth, when Rupert he was fain To face about and get him home again; Loth to appear with his poor glow-worm light When such a sun as this appear’d in sight.