To check their pride, our fleet half-victuall’d goes,
Enough to serve us till we reach our foes;
Who now appear so numerous and bold,
The action worthy of our arms we hold. 100
A greater force than that which here we find,
Ne’er press’d the ocean, nor employ’d the wind. 
Restrain’d a while by the unwelcome night,
Th’ impatient English scarce attend the light. 
But now the morning (heaven severely clear!)
To the fierce work indulgent does appear;
And Phoebus lifts above the waves his light,
That he might see, and thus record, the fight.

As when loud winds from diff’rent quarters rush, 109
Vast clouds encount’ring one another crush;
With swelling sails so, from their sev’ral coasts,
Join the Batavian and the British hosts. 
For a less prize, with less concern and rage,
The Roman fleets at Actium did engage;
They, for the empire of the world they knew,
These, for the Old contend, and for the New. 
At the first shock, with blood and powder stain’d,
Nor heaven, nor sea, their former face retain’d;
Fury and art produce effects so strange,
They trouble Nature, and her visage change. 120
Where burning ships the banish’d sun supply,
And no light shines, but that by which men die,
There York appears! so prodigal is he
Of royal blood, as ancient as the sea,
Which down to him, so many ages told,
Has through the veins of mighty monarchs roll’d! 
The great Achilles march’d not to the field
Till Vulcan that impenetrable shield,
And arms, had wrought; yet there no bullets flew,
But shafts and darts which the weak Phrygians threw, 130
Our bolder hero on the deck does stand
Exposed, the bulwark of his native land;
Defensive arms laid by as useless here,
Where massy balls the neighb’ring rocks do tear. 
Some power unseen those princes does protect,
Who for their country thus themselves neglect.

Against him first Opdam his squadron leads,
Proud of his late success against the Swedes;
Made by that action, and his high command,
Worthy to perish by a prince’s hand. 140
The tall Batavian in a vast ship rides,
Bearing an army in her hollow sides;

Yet, not inclined the English ship to board,
More on his guns relies than on his sword;
From whence a fatal volley we received;
It miss’d the Duke, but his great heart it grieved;
Three worthy persons from his side it tore,
And dyed his garment with their scatter’d gore. 
Happy! to whom this glorious death arrives,
More to be valued than a thousand lives! 150
On such a theatre as this to die,
For such a cause, and such a witness by! 
Who would not thus a sacrifice be made,
To have his blood on such an altar laid? 
The rest about him struck with horror stood,