“Each doleful day still with fresh loss returns,
    The loyal London now a third time burns,
    And the true Royal Oak and Royal James,
    Allied in fate, increase with theirs her flames. 
    Of all our navy none shall now survive,
    But that the ships themselves were taught to dive,
    And the kind river in its creek them hides. 
    Freighting their pierced keels with oozy tides.”

The situation was indeed serious enough.  One wiseacre in command in
London declared his belief that the Tower was no longer “tenable.”

    “And were not Ruyter’s maw with ravage cloyed,
    Even London’s ashes had been then destroyed.”

But the Dutch admiral returns the way he came.

    “Now nothing more at Chatham’s left to burn,
    The Holland squadron leisurely return;
    And spite of Ruperts and of Albemarles,
    To Ruyter’s triumph led the captive Charles. 
    The pleasing sight he often does prolong,
    Her mast erect, tough cordage, timber strong,
    Her moving shape, all these he doth survey,
    And all admires, but most his easy prey. 
    The seamen search her all within, without;
    Viewing her strength, they yet their conquest doubt;
    Then with rude shouts, secure, the air they vex,
    With gamesome joy insulting on her decks. 
    Such the feared Hebrew captive, blinded, shorn,
    Was led about in sport, the public scorn.”

The poet then indulges himself in an emotional outburst.

    “Black day, accursed! on thee let no man hail
    Out of the port, or dare to hoist a sail,
    Or row a boat in thy unlucky hour! 
    Thee, the year’s monster, let thy dam devour,
    And constant Time, to keep his course yet right,
    Fill up thy space with a redoubled night. 
    When aged Thames was bound with fetters base,
    And Medway chaste ravished before his face,
    And their dear offspring murdered in their sight,
    Thou and thy fellows saw the odious light. 
    Sad change, since first that happy pair was wed,
    When all the rivers graced their nuptial bed;
    And father Neptune promised to resign
    His empire old to their immortal line;
    Now with vain grief their vainer hopes they rue,
    Themselves dishonoured, and the gods untrue;
    And to each other, helpless couple, moan,
    As the sad tortoise for the sea does groan: 
    But most they for their darling Charles complain,
    And were it burned, yet less would be their pain. 
    To see that fatal pledge of sea-command,
    Now in the ravisher De Ruyter’s hand,
    The Thames roared, swooning Medway turned her tide,
    And were they mortal, both for grief had died.”

A scapegoat had, of course, to be at once provided.  He was found in Mr.
Commissioner Pett, the most skilful shipbuilder of the age.