200
  Thus Sforza, cursed with a too fertile brain,
  Lost by his wiles the power his wit did gain. 
  Henceforth their fougue[24] must spend at lesser rate,
  Than in its flames to wrap a nation’s fate. 
  Suffer’d to live, they are like helots set,
  A virtuous shame within us to beget. 
  For by example most we sinn’d before,
  And glass-like clearness mix’d with frailty bore. 
  But, since reform’d by what we did amiss,
  We by our sufferings learn to prize our bliss:  210
  Like early lovers, whose unpractised hearts
  Were long the May-game of malicious arts,
  When once they find their jealousies were vain,
  With double heat renew their fires again. 
  ’Twas this produced the joy that hurried o’er
  Such swarms of English to the neighbouring shore,
  To fetch that prize, by which Batavia made
  So rich amends for our impoverish’d trade. 
  Oh! had you seen from Schevelin’s[25] barren shore,
  (Crowded with troops, and barren now no more,) 220
  Afflicted Holland to his farewell bring
  True sorrow, Holland to regret a king! 
  While waiting him his royal fleet did ride,
  And willing winds to their lower’d sails denied. 
  The wavering streamers, flags, and standard out,
  The merry seamen’s rude but cheerful shout: 
  And last the cannon’s voice, that shook the skies,
  And as it fares in sudden ecstasies,
  At once bereft us both of ears and eyes. 
  The Naseby,[26] now no longer England’s shame, 230
  But better to be lost in Charles’ name,
  (Like some unequal bride in nobler sheets)
  Receives her lord:  the joyful London meets
  The princely York, himself alone a freight;
  The Swiftsure groans beneath great Gloster’s[27] weight: 
  Secure as when the halcyon breeds, with these,
  He that was born to drown might cross the seas. 
  Heaven could not own a Providence, and take
  The wealth three nations ventured at a stake. 
  The same indulgence Charles’ voyage bless’d, 240
  Which in his right had miracles confess’d. 
  The winds that never moderation knew,
  Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
  Or, out of breath with joy, could not enlarge
  Their straighten’d lungs, or conscious of their charge. 
  The British Amphitrite, smooth and clear,
  In richer azure never did appear;
  Proud her returning prince to entertain
  With the submitted fasces of the main. 
  And welcome now, great monarch, to your own! 250
  Behold the approaching cliffs of Albion: 
  It is no longer motion cheats your view,
  As you meet it, the land approacheth you. 
  The land returns, and, in the white it wears,
  The marks of penitence and sorrow bears. 
  But you, whose goodness your descent doth show,