Some ships too fool-hardy did headlong engage, Which put the stout admiral in such a rage, That nought but a whore could passion asswage, _Which nobody can deny_. When the shot from the enemy flying at random Slew the stout hero’s dog, that could no way withstand ’em, His bitches desired their master to land ’em, _Which nobody can deny_. ’Twould make a man, much more a woman, agast, sir, To see a dog kill’d ’twixt the leggs of his master, Who much more deserv’d such a dismal disaster, _Which nobody can deny_. Some say that he wanted both powder and ball. Be that true or false, it was certainly all One to him, whose courage was so very small, _Which nobody can deny_. The Dutch at the enemy bravely did fire all, Tho’ Arthur commanded the fleet to retire all, For which if he be’nt hang’d we much shou’d admire all, _Which nobody can deny_. Tho’ the French for a time may bluster and boast Of the honour they won by Torrington lost, Their courage will cool when our fleet’s on their coast, _Which nobody can deny_. Not one town of theirs, nor two, three, nor four Shall appease for the pranks they play’d on our shoar; We have admirals now that will pay off the score, _Which nobody can deny_. Printed at the request of a Tarr for the diversion of the melancholly Widows of Wapping. _ENGLAND’S TRIUMPH AT SEA_ [1691]. A mighty great fleet, the like was ne’re seen Since the reign of King William and Mary his Queen, Design’d the destruction of France to have been: _Which nobody can deny_. This fleet was compos’d of English and Dutch, For ships, guns, and men there was never seen such; Nor so little done, when expected so much: _Which nobody can deny_. Eighty-six ships of war, which we capitall call, Besides frigats and tenders, and yachts that are small, Sayl’d out, and did little or nothing at all: _Which nobody can deny_. Thirty-nine thousand and five hundred brave men, Had they chanc’d to have met the French fleet, O then, As they beat ’em last year, they’d have beat ’em agen: _Which nobody can deny_. Six thousand great guns, and seventy-eight more, As great and as good as ever did roar; It had been the same thing had they left ’em ashore _Which nobody can deny_. Torrington now must command ’em no more, For we try’d what mettal he was made on before, And ’tis better for him on land for to whore, _Which nobody can deny_. For a bullet, perhaps, from a rude cannon’s breach, Which makes no distinction betwixt poor and rich, Instead of his dog might have ta’ne off his bitch, _Which nobody can deny_.