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]!