The Duke (ill pleased that fire should thus prevent The work which for his brighter sword he meant), 200 Anger still burning in his valiant breast, Goes to complete revenge upon the rest. So on the guardless herd, their keeper slain, Rushes a tiger in the Libyan plain. The Dutch, accustom'd to the raging sea, And in black storms the frowns of heaven to see, Never met tempest which more urged' their fears. Than that which in the Prince's look appears. Fierce, goodly, young! Mars he resembles, when 209 Jove sends him down to scourge perfidious men; Such as with foul ingratitude have paid Both those that led, and those that gave them aid. Where he gives on, disposing of their fates, Terror and death on his loud cannon waits, With which he pleads his brother's cause so well, He shakes the throne to which he does appeal. The sea with spoils his angry bullets strow, Widows and orphans making as they go; Before his ship fragments of vessels torn, Flags, arms, and Belgian carcasses are borne; 220 And his despairing foes, to flight inclined, Spread all their canvas to invite the wind. So the rude Boreas, where he lists to blow, Makes clouds above, and billows fly below, Beating the shore; and, with a boist'rous rage, Does heaven at once, and earth, and sea engage. The Dutch, elsewhere, did through the wat'ry field Perform enough to have made others yield; But English courage, growing as they fight, In danger, noise, and slaughter, takes delight; 230 Their bloody task, unwearied still, they ply, Only restrain'd by death, or victory. Iron and lead, from earth's dark entrails torn, Like showers of hail from either side are borne; So high the rage of wretched mortals goes, Hurling their mother's bowels at their foes! Ingenious to their ruin, every age Improves the arts and instruments of rage. Death-hast'ning ills Nature enough has sent, And yet men still a thousand more invent! 240 But Bacchus now, which led the Belgians on, So fierce at first, to favour us begun; Brandy and wine (their wonted friends) at length Render them useless, and betray their strength. So corn in fields, and in the garden flowers, Revive and raise themselves with mod'rate showers; But overcharged with never-ceasing rain, Become too moist, and bend their heads again. Their reeling ships on one another fall, Without a foe, enough to ruin all. 250 Of this disorder, and the favouring wind, The watchful English such advantage find, Ships fraught with fire among the heap they throw, And up the so-entangled Belgians blow. The flame invades the powder-rooms, and then, Their guns shoot bullets, and their vessels men. The scorch'd Batavians on the billows float, Sent from their own, to pass in Charon's boat.