The Prosopoeia of Ostend

SEE the small Stage of a great War,
On which fam'd Generals fight;
Whilst wondring Nations from a far
Gaze on the Tragick fight.

Like Hydra Heads my Basions rise,
Their fall augments their State:
Their re-ascending Tow'rs despise
The Impotence of Fate.

The Winters most inclement Sky,
On the bleak beach I ear,
Whilst jarring Winds the War supply,
In their vast Field the Air.

Phoebus returning warms my Shore,
And with the Plague annoys:
That God of Physick poysons more,
Than murdring War destroys.

War, Famine, Plague, together go,
To slay one wretch conspire,
Just as the fatal three below,
Each others help require.

Here in a heap come all the ills,
That shorten human breath.
And 'tis an envied fate that kills
But by a single Death.

Nor are my Sons consum'd alone:
Ev'ry killing trouble,
With which the Enemy makes him groan,
He himself feels double.

Th' impartial Plague sweeps either side,
One Monument I'm grown;
Then destiny, if thou canst, decide,
Who shall call it his own.

Expiring men for Victory strain,
And like Bellona rave:
When all the Conqueror can gain,
Is but the vainer Grave.