Now can our navy see the wished for port, But there (to see the fortune) was a fort; Sandwich would not be beaten, nor yet beat; Fools only fight, the prudent use to treat. His cousin Mountague, by court disaster, Dwindled into the wooden horse's master; To speak of peace seemed amongst all most proper, Had Talbot treated then of nought but copper; For what are forts, when void of ammunition, With friends, or foes, what would we more condition? Yet we, three days, till the Dutch furnished all, Men, powder, money, cannon--treat with wall: Then Tydeman, finding the Danes would not, Sent in six captains bravely to be shot, And Mountague, though drest like any bride, And aboard him too, yet was reached and died. The following more serious account of the Bergen attempt is taken from a poet, who started with our author in the race of panegyric, on the exploits of the naval war. His work is entitled _a Poem, being an Essay upon the Present War with the Dutch 1666, by John James_. Trusting the north as the securer way, They court the night for treasures of the day; Sweet spices, gums, and all the sun can boast, Or the indulgence of the Indian coast, Pay tribute to their hopes, which, lest they may Perish near home, in withered Norway stay; Where that rough Satyr, Bergen, is possessed Of the rich spoils of the luxurious east. The port was the dark burden of that womb, Whose liquid bowels are the greedy tomb Of trade and hope, by art improved to be From foes a refuge, boisterous winds, and sea. The worth and safety, though not equal fate Of this fair prize, might Jason's emulate; That yellow fleece, bulls hoofed with thunder kept, And a near watchful guard, that never slept. This cloistered, in the hostile harbour lay, Maintained by castles and a treacherous way. The English, that this proud return did wait, More conscious of revenge than guilty fate, Attempt, with one bold squadron of their fleet, To render vows, though not their hopes, complete. Obsequious to their courage, they dispense Through the sad lake a bloody influence; Which bears in sight of the unfaithful shore, And spoils the freight we would have saved before. Art, fury, all to ruin had designed These joys of peace, but the enamoured wind, Which, like a Phœnix, in that nest would lie, And with a surfeit of these odours die, Thus jealous grown, does with full cheeks oppose These flames, which ships dissembled to our foes. Retreating thence as lions, which some wile, Or stratagem, did of their prey beguile, We cleave the briny element, to meet Dodona, sacred to our Jove, the fleet. Note X.