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AYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife,
"You never yet told me one truth in your life." Vext Pontia no way could this thefis allow,
"You're a Cuckold, says she; do I tell you truth now?”
Written in Lady Howe's Ovid's Epistles.
Ovid, kind author, found him fome relief,
Pray, good Lord Harley, let Jonathan know,
Your humble fervant,
Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to affign
EPITA P H.
IF wit or honefty could fave
Our mouldering ashes from the grave,
His prudence and his wit were seen
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,
He ne'er could fawn or flatter thofe
Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes :
Ne'er skulk'd from whence his fovereign led him,
Or fnarl'd against the hand that fed 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 loft?
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.
Free-quarters for the army too
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,
The bourreau did his worft; Gaphny, alas! is dead and gone, And left his judge accurst.
In this concife defpotic way
Unhappy Gaphny fell,
Which did all honeft men affray,
Full two good hundred pounds a year,
This poor man's real estate,
He fettled on his favourite dear,
And Culliford can say 't.