a poem

And ar't return'd againe with all thy faults
Thou greate Commander of the all=go=naughts
And left the lle behinde thee?what's the matter
Did winter make thy Chapps to chatter,
Could not the Surging,and distempred Seas
thy queasy Stomacke(gorg'd)with sweete meats please
Or didst thou sodainly remooue thy Station
throughe Iealousy of Hollands supplantation
Or was't for want of wenches,or did'st feare
the king(thou absent)durst wrong'd Bristoll heare,
Or didst thou hasten headlong to prevent
A fruitlesse hope't for needfull Parlianment?
Allthese noe question with a restlesse motion
Vext thy bespotted soule,as that blacke potion
tortur'd the Noble Scott,whose Ghost can tell
thy swolne ambition made his carcase swell,
But their's a reason worse,then this,they say
the Frenchmen beate thee,and thou ran'st away
Can this bee true,could not thy glorious boast
before thy goeing:fright them from that Coast?
Could not thy tytles feare them, nor the Lambes
Protection, saueguard thee from these French Rambs
Could not thy Cambridge Pupills zealous prayers
compos'd of Brownish, and Arminian ayres
confound thy foes? or els did their distraction
Make in thy hopeles hoope the fruitlesse fraction
Could not thy Parliament Majesticke Vowes
Prevayle t'impose the garland on thy browes
Could not thy Chaplaine Londons sacrifice
nor moue, nor suffocate the destinies
that sends from paunches Altar more fumes forth
of Smoake, and vapour, then Landaphe is worth.
Could not thy mothers masses, nor her Crosses
Nor her sorceries, prevent these fatall losses
Nor Regall wishes, nor embraces neither,
Nor th'armies Vallour, nor all these togeather
Hence wee conclude, to these that will be Vitious
Pray will, pray, Heauen will not bee propitious
God's deafe to them, that will not heare the cryes
Of their Oppressed subiects injuries,