Obtained (with the Providence of Almighty God) against the Dutch Fleet, June 2 and 3, 1665. A Fight as bloody (for the time and number) as ever was performed upon the Narrow Seas, giving a particular accompt of Seventeen Men of Warr taken; Fourteen sunk and Fir’d. But forty that could escape of their whole Fleet, which at this time was hotly persued by the Earl of Sandwich. Their Admiral Opdam slain by the Duke of Yorke’s own Frigat. Van Trump sunk by Captain Holmes. The number of their kill’d then amounts to 10,000. To the tune of _Packington’s Pound_. Let England, and Ireland, and Scotland rejoyce, And render thanksgiving with heart and with voice. That surly fanatick that now will not sing, Is false to the kingdom, and foe to the King; For he that will grutch, Our fortune is such, Doth deal for the devil, as well as the Dutch; For why should my nature or conscience repine, At taking of his life, that fain would have mine. So high a victory we could not command, Had it not been gain’d by an Almighty hand, The great Lord of Battels did perfect this work, For God and the King, and the good Duke of York; Whose courage was such, Against the Low-Dutch, That vapour’d and swagger’d, like Lords in a hutch; But, let the bold Hollander burn, sink, or swim, They have honour enough to be beaten by him. Fire, aire, earth, and water, it seems were imploy’d, To strive for the conquest which we have injoy’d, No honour, or profit, or safety can spring, To those that do fight against God and the King; The battel was hot, And bloudily fought, The fire was like rain, and like hail was the shot, For in this ingagement ten thousand did bleed Of Flemmings, who now are the Low-Dutch indeed. In this cruel conflict stout Opdam was slain, By the great Duke of York, and lies sunk in the main, ’Twas from the Duke’s frigat that he had his doome, And by the Duke’s valour he was overcome; It was his good fate, To fall at that rate, Who sink under Princes, are buried in state. Since valour and courage in one grave must lye, It is a great honour by great hands to dye. That gallant bold fellow, the son of Van Trump, Whose brains were beat out by the head of the Rump, Ingaging with Holmes, a brave captain of ours, Retreated to Neptune’s salt, waterie bowers: His fate was grown grim, He no longer could swim, But he that caught fishes, now fishes catch him, They eat up our fish, without reason or lawes, But now they are going to pay for the sauce.