author:John Dryden

“ Wounded'st thy self, when thou didst kill thy Foe.
Like Steel, when it much work hath past
That which was rough doth shine at last;
Thy Arms by being oftner us'd, did smoother grow;
Nor did thy Battels make thee proud or high;
Thy Conquest rais'd the State not thee:
Thou overcame'st thy self in every Victory.
As when the Sun in a directer line
Upon a Polish'd Golden Shield doth shine,
The Shield reflects unto the Sun again his Light ”

“ Are not excus'd for what we owe to thee:
For so men from Religion are not freed.
But, from the Altars, Cloud must rise,
Though Heaven it self doth nothing need;
And though the Gods don't want, an Earthly Sacrifice. ”

“ Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle;
Under the Tropick is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From Civil Broils he did us disingage,
Found nobler objects for our Martial rage;
And with wise Conduct to his Country show'd
Their Ancient way of conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then, if we no Tears allow
To him that gave us Peace and Empire too.
Princes that fear'd him, grieve, concern'd to see
No pitch of glory from the Grave is free. ”