Originally printed in broadside form, being written in the year 1662. It was bitterly resented by the Dutch.
As needy gallants, in the scriv'ner's hands, Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgag'd lands; The first fat buck of all the season'd sent, And keeper takes no fee in compliment; The dotage of some Englishmen is such, To fawn on those, who ruin them, the Dutch. They shall have all, rather than make a war With those, who of the same religion are. The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too; Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you. Some are resolv'd, not to find out the cheat, But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat. What injuries soe'er upon us fall, Yet still the same religion answers all. Religion wheedl'd us to civil war, Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now wou'd spare. Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true, They have no more religion, faith! than you. Int'rest's the God they worship in their state, And we, I take it, have not much of that. Well monarchies may own religion's name, But states are atheists in their very frame. They share a sin; and such proportions fall, That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all. Think on their rapine, falsehood, cruelty, And that what once they were, they still wou'd be. To one well-born th' affront is worse and more, When he's abus'd and baffl'd 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, Than did their lubber state mankind bestride. Their sway became 'em 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. As Cato did in Africk fruits display; Let us before our eyes their Indies lay: All loyal English will like him conclude; Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdu'd.
This satire was written in reply to a savage poem by the dramatist, Thomas Shadwell, entitled "The Medal of John Dayes". Dryden and Shadwell had been friends, but the enmity begotten of political opposition had separated them. Flecknoe, who gives the name to this poem, and of whom Shadwell is treated as the son and heir, was a dull poet who had always laid himself open to ridicule. It is not known (says W.D. Christie in the _Globe_ Dryden) whether he had ever given Dryden offence, but it is certain that his "Epigrams", published in 1670, contain some lines addressed to Dryden of a complimentary character.