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"You're a Cuckold, fays fhe; do I tell you truth now?"
Written in Lady Howe's Ovid's Epiftles.
Ovid, kind author, found him fome relief,
Who muft not speak, and therefore cannot live?
Pray, good Lord Harley, let Jonathan know,
Your humble fervant,
I Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to affign
IF wit or honefty could fave
Our mouldering afhes from the grave,
His prudence and his wit were feen
He own'd the power, and lov'd the Queen.
That ferving her was to be bleft.-
That men are beasts, and dogs have fenfe!
His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes:
Ne'er fkulk'd from whence his fovereign led him,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour!
To Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his letters, And thought they were fafe in the hands of his
How happen'd it then that the packets were lost?
To the Tune of, Lady ISABELLA's Tragedy.
F Nero, tyrant, petty king*,
Who heretofore did reign
In fam'd Hibernia, I will fing,
He hated was by rich and poor,
Full proud and arrogant was he,
The guilty he would ftill fet free,
He, with a haughty impious nod,
A patriot of high degree,
Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
And, arm'd with truth, impeach'd the Don
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I'll unfold to you anon,
In low, but faithful rhymes.
* Lord Coningsby, one of the lords juftices of Ireland. + The Earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby.
The articles recorded stand,
Against this peerless peer,
Search but the archives of the land *,
The heads fet in their native light
That traiterously he did abuse
That he, contrary to all law,
Th' illegal oath to take.
He did exact and force
On Proteftants; his love to fhow,
On all provifions deftin'd for
He laid a tax full hard and fore,
The futlers too he did ordain
For licences fhould pay,
Which they refus'd with just disdain,
And fled the camp away.
*Journal, Sabbati, 16 die Decembris, 1693.
By which provifions were fo fcant,
That hundreds there did die,
The foldiers food and drink did want,
He so much lov'd his private gain,
He could not hear or fee;
They might, or die, or might complain,
That, above and against all right,
That he, O ciel! without trial,
No fooner faid, but it was done,
In this concife defpotic way
Which did all honeft men affray,
As truly it might well.
Full two good hundred pounds a year,
This poor man's real estate,
He fettled on his favourite dear,
And Culliford can say 't.