_Tow._ I leave thee, life, with no regret at parting; Full of whatever thou could'st give, I rise From thy neglected feast, and go to sleep: Yet, on this brink of death, my eyes are opened, And heaven has bid me prophecy to you, The unjust contrivers of this tragic scene:-- _An age is coming, when an English monarch With blood shall pay that blood which you have shed: To save your cities from victorious arms, You shall invite the waves to hide your earth[1], And, trembling, to the, tops of houses fly, While deluges invade your lower rooms: Then, as with waters you have swelled our bodies, With damps of waters shall your heads be swoln: Till, at the last, your sapped foundations fall, And universal ruin swallows all._ [_He is led out with the English; the Dutch remain._ _Van. Her._ Ay, ay, we'll venture both ourselves and children for such another pull. _1 Dutch._ Let him prophecy when his head's off. _2 Dutch._ There's ne'er a Nostradamus of them all shall fright us from our gain. _Fisc._ Now for a smooth apology, and then a fawning letter to the king of England; and our work's done. _Har._ 'Tis done as I would wish it: Now, brethren, at my proper cost and charges, Three days you are my guests; in which good time We will divide their greatest wealth by lots, While wantonly we raffle for the rest: Then, in full rummers, and with joyful hearts, We'll drink confusion to all English starts. [_Exeunt._ Footnote: 1. During the French invasion of 1672, the Dutch were obliged to adopt the desperate defence of cutting their dykes, and inundating the country. EPILOGUE A poet once the Spartans led to fight, And made them conquer in the muse's right; So would our poet lead you on this day, Showing your tortured fathers in his play. To one well-born the affront is worse, and more, When he's abused, and baffled 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[1], Than did their lubber state mankind bestride; Their sway became them 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[2]. As Cato did his Afric fruits display, So we before your eyes their Indies lay: All loyal English will, like him, conclude, Let Caesar live, and Carthage be subdued[3]! Footnotes: 1. The situation of Venice renders it impossible to bring horses into the town; accordingly, the Venetians are proverbially bad riders. 2. The poet alludes to the king's evil, and to the joint war of France and England against Holland.