A Sayle! a sayle! cry'd they, who did consentOnce more to break the eighth CommandementFor a few Coles; of which by theft so wellTh'are stor'd; they have enow to furnish HellWith penall heat; though each sad Devill thereA frozen Muscovite, or Russian were:The chase grew swift; whilst an old weary Pinke,Not us'd to fly, and somewhat loth to sinke,Did yeeld unto the Foe; who boards her strait;And having rifled all her precious Freight;A trembling Britaine kneeles, and did beseechEach composition there, of Tarre and Pitch,That they would heare him speake: 'tis not (quoth he)Our kinde respect to wealth, or libertie,Begets this feare; but lest blind Fortune mayUnto some fierce, unruly hand betray,The truest Servant to a State, that cou'dBe giv'n a Nation out of flesh and bloud:And hee tall Ieff'ry height! who not much us'dTo fights at Sea, and loth to be abus'd,Resolv'd to hide him, where they sooner mightDiscover him, with smelling than with sight.Each Eye was now imploy'd; no man could thinkeOf any uncouth Nooke, or narrow Chinke,But strait they sought him there; in holes not deepBut small, where slender Magots us'd to creep:At last, they found him close, beneath a spickAnd almost span-new-pewter-Candlestick.A sapient Diego, that had now commandOf Ships and Victorie, tooke him in hand:Peis'd him twise, tasted his discourse; at lengthBeleev'd, that he dissembled wit, and strength:Quoth he, Victors, and Vanquished! I bidYou all give care, to wisdome of Madrid!This that appeares to you, a walking-Thumbe,May prove, the gen'rall Spie of Christendome:Then calls for Chaines, but such as fitting seeme,For Elephants, when manag'd in a Teeme.Whilst puissant Ieff'ry 'gins to wish (in vaine)He had long since contriv'd a truce with Spaine.His Sinewes faile him now; nor doth hee yeeldMuch trust unto his Buckler, or his Shield;Yet threatens like a second Tamberlaine,To bring them 'fore the Queenes Lord-Chamberlaine;Because without the leave, of him, or her,They keepe her Houshold-Servant prisoner.Diego, that study'd wrath, more than remorse,Commands, that they to Dunkerk steere their course:Whilst Captive-Ieffr'y shewes to wiser sight,Just like a melancholy Isralite,In midst of's journey unto Babylon;Melt marble hearts, that chance to thinke thereon!The Winds are guilty too; for now beholdAlready landed this our Brittaine bold!The People view him round; some take their oathHe's humane Issue, but not yet of growth:And others (that more sub'tly did conferre)Thinke him a small, contracted Conjurer:Then Diego, Bredro names! Hemskerk! and cryes,Hans van Geulick! Derick too! place your ThighsOn this judiciall Bench; that wee may sitT'undoe, this short-Embassadour with wit.One, faine would know's discent: Thou Pirat-Dogge(The wrathfull Captive then reply'd) not Ogge(The Bashan King) was my Progenitor;Nor doe I strive, to fetch my AncestorFrom Anack's Sonnes, nor from the GenitalsOf wrastling-Cacus, who gave many falls.No matter for his birth, sayd Diego then;Bring hither strait the Rack! for it is TenTo one, this will enforce from out his Pate,Some secrets, that concerne the English State.But O! true, loyall Heart! he'ld not one wordReveale, that he had heard at Councell-bord.Some ask'd him then, his bus'nesse late in France;What Instruments lay there conceal'd t'advanceThe Brittish cause? when they perceiv'd his heart;Was bigge, and whilst enforc'd, would nought impart;Diego arose; and said, Sir, I beseech you,Acquaint us if the Cardinall de RichelieuIntend a warre, in Italy, or no?(Most noble Ieff'ry still!) hee seemes to knowNought of that point; though divers think, when there;The Cardinall did whisper in his eareThe Scheame of all his plots; and sought to gaineHis company along with him to Spaine;For thither he'll march, if he can byth' waySweep a few durty Nations into th' Sea.A solemne Monke, that silent stood close by,Beleev'd this little Captive, a Church-Spie!Quoth he, that shrivled face, hath Schysme in it;And lately there's a learned volumne writ,Wherein Ben-Iharky, and Ben-Ezra too,And Rabin Kimky eke, a learned Jew,Are cited all; it labours to make good,That there were Protestants before the Flood;And thou its Author art: Ieff'ry swore then,He never knew those Hebrew Gentlemen!When they perceiv'd, nor threats, nor kindnesse soughtFrom love, could get him to discover ought;Diego leaves the Table; sweares by his Skarffe;The thing, they doubted thus, was a meere Dwarffe.The fleetest Izeland-Shock, they then provide;On which they mount him strait, and bid him ride:He weepes a teare or two, for's Jewells lost;And so, with heavy heart, to Bruxels post.
Ieffereidos, Or the Captivitie of Jeffery.
Canto the second.
So runs the nimble Snayle, in slimy track,Hast'ning with all his Tenement on's back;And so, on goodly Cabidge-leafe, the fleetSwift-Caterpiller moves with eager feet,As this sad Courtier now; whose mighty SteedMay for an easie amble, or for speed,Compare with gentle Bull in Yoke: But O!Here now begins a Canticle of woe!Chide cruell Fate, whose buisnesse in the Spheares,Wise Ieff'ry notes, is but to cause our Teares:Their rule, and pow'r (quoth he) is understood,More in the harme they doe us, than the good:And this hee say'd, because he scarce had drivenAlong that Coast, the length of Inches Seven,But downe his Izeland fell; some Authors sayA burly Oake, lay there disguis'd in's way;Others a Rush; and some report, his SteedDid stumble, at the splinter of a Reed;And some (far more authentick) say agin,'Twas at a haire, that drop'd from humane Chin:But though, the sage Historians are at strife,How to resolve this point; his Coursers lifeThey hold lost in the fall; whilst the discreetIeff'ry was forc'd, to wander on his Feet.Old wives, that saw the sorrowes of this Spy,Their wither'd Lips (thinner than Lids of Eye)Strait opened wide; and tickled with his wrongs,Did laugh, as if t'were •ech'ry to their Lungs;And Diego too, whose grave, and solemne Brow,Was ever knit, grew loud, and wanton now:O for a Guard (quoth he) of Switzers here,To heave that Giant up! but come not neere;For now enrag'd, he may perchance so tosse us,As you would thinke, you touch'd a live Colossus!This Ieff'ry heard; and it did stir his gall,More than his Coursers death, or his owne fall.Sorrowes, that hasten to us, are but slowIn their departure; as the learn'd may knowBy this sad Story; since new cause was given;For which our deepe Platonick questions Heaven.O cruell Starres (quoth he) will you still soOfficious be, to trouble us below?'Tis say'd your care doth governe us; d'ye callThat care, to let Ambassadours thus fall?Nay, and permit worse dangers to ensue?Though all your rule, and influence be true;I had as leefe (since mortals thus you handle)Be govern'd by the influence of a Candle.This he had cause to say; for now beholdA Foule of spatious wing, bloody, and boldIn his aspect; haughty in gate, and stiffe onHis large spread Clawes he stood, as any Griffon;Though, by kinde, a Turkey; whose plot that wayWas like a subtle Scowt to watch for prey;Such as is blowne about by ev'ry wind;But here's the dire mistake; this Foule (halfe blinde)At Ieff'ry pecks, and with intent to eatHim up, in stead of a large graine of Wheat:Ieff'ry (in duell nice) ne're thinks upon't,As the Turkeys hunger, but an affront.His sword he drew; a better none aliveE're got from Spanish Foe, for Shillings Five.And now, the Battaile doth begin: sound highYour Oaten Reeds, t'encourage Victorie!Strike up the wrathfull Tabor! and the Gitthern;The loud Jew's-trump! and Spirit-stirring-Cittherne!Ieff'ry the bold, as if he had o'reheardThese Instruments of Warre, his Arme uprear'd,Then cryes St. George for England! and with that wordHe mischief'd (what I pray?) nought but his sword:Though some report, he noch'd the Foes left wing;And Poets too, who faithfully did singThis Battaile in Low-Dutch, tell of a fewSmall Feathers there, which at the first charge flewAbout the field; but doe not strictly knowThat they were shed by fury of that blow.This they affirme; the Turkey in his lookeExpress'd how much, he it unkindly tooke,That wanting food; our Ieff'ry would not let him,Enjoy awhile the privilege to eat him:His Taile he spreads, jets back; then turnes agen;And fought, as if, for th'honour of his Hen:Ieff'ry retorts each stroke; and then cryes; MaugerThy strength, I will dissect thee like an Augure!But who of mortall race, deserves to writeThe next encounter in this bloudy fight?Wisely didst thou (O Poet of Anchusin;)Stay here thy Pen, and lure thy eager Muse in;Envoking Mars, some halfe an houre at least,To helpe thy fury onward with the rest:For Ieff'ry strait was throwne; whilst saint, and weake,The cruell Foe, assaults him with his Beake.A Lady-Midwife now, he there by chanceEspy'd, that came along with him from France:A heart nours'd up in War; that ne're beforeThis time (quoth he) could bow, now doth implore:Thou that deliver'd hast so many, beSo kinde of nature, to deliver me!But stay: for though the learn'd ChronologerOf Dunkerk, doth confesse him freed by her;The subt'ler Poets yet, whom wee translateIn all this Epick Ode, doe not relateThe manner how; and wee are loth at allTo vary from the Dutch Originall.Deeds they report, of greater height than these;Wonders, and truth; which if the Court-wits please,A little helpe from Nature, lesse from Art,May happily produce in a Third part.
