"You're a Cuckold, fays fhe; do I tell you truth now?"

Written in Lady Howe's Ovid's Epiftles.
HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover's care,

Ovid, kind author, found him fome relief,
Rang'd his unruly fighs, and fet his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain'd him pity, fometimes love.
But, oh! what pangs torment the deftin'd heart,
That feels the wound, yet dares not fhew the dart !
What care could Ovid to his forrows give,

Who muft not speak, and therefore cannot live?

A N

I

EPISTLE, 1716.

Pray, good Lord Harley, let Jonathan know,
How long you intend to live incognito.

Your humble fervant,

ANOTHER

ELKANAH SETTLE.

EPISTLE.

I Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to affign
When she shall receive a turkey and chine;
That a body may come to St. James's, to dine.

TRUE'S

EPITAPH.

IF wit or honefty could fave

Our mouldering afhes from the grave,
This ftone had still remain'd unmark'd,
I ftill writ profe, True ftill have bark'd.
But envious Fate has claim'd its due,
Here lies the mortal part of True;
His deathlefs virtues muft furvive,
To better us that are alive.

His prudence and his wit were feen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,

He own'd the power, and lov'd the Queen.
By long obedience he confest

That ferving her was to be bleft.-
Ye murmurers, let True evince

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 fkulk'd from whence his fovereign led him,
Or fnarl'd against the hand that fed him.-
Read this, ye statesmen now in favour,

And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

EPIGRAM.

}

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To Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his letters, And thought they were fafe in the hands of his

betters.

How happen'd it then that the packets were lost?
These were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of the

Poft.

THE VICEROY,

A BALLAD.

To the Tune of, Lady ISABELLA's Tragedy.

F Nero, tyrant, petty king*,

OF

Who heretofore did reign

In fam'd Hibernia, I will fing,
And in a ditty plain.

;

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you fhall hear
So ill he exercis'd his power,
That he himfelf did fear.

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal;

The guilty he would ftill fet free,
But guiltlefs men enthral.

He, with a haughty impious nod,
Would curse and dogmatize;
Not fearing either man or God:
Gold he did idolize.

A patriot of high degree,

Who could no longer bear

This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

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

The articles recorded stand,

Against this peerless peer,

Search but the archives of the land *,
You'll find them written there.
Attend, and justly I'll recite
His treasons to you all,

The heads fet in their native light
(And figh poor Gaphny's fall).

That traiterously he did abuse
The power in him repos'd;
And wickedly the fame did ufe,
On all mankind impos'd.

That he, contrary to all law,
An oath did frame and make,
Compelling the militia

Th' illegal oath to take.
Free-quarters for the army too

He did exact and force

On Proteftants; his love to fhow,
Than Papift us'd them worse.

On all provifions deftin'd for
The camp at Limerick,

He laid a tax full hard and fore,
Though many men were fick.

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

By which provifions were fo fcant,

That hundreds there did die,

The foldiers food and drink did want,
Nor famine could they fly.

He so much lov'd his private gain,

He could not hear or fee;

They might, or die, or might complain,
Without relief, pardie.

That, above and against all right,
By word of mouth did he,
In council fitting, hellish spite,
The Farmer's fate decree :

That he, O ciel! without trial,
Straitway should hanged be;
Though then the courts were open all,
Yet Nero judge would be.

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,

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.

Befides,