Befides, he gave five hundred pound
To Fielding his own fcribe,

Who was his bail; one friend he found,

He ow'd him to the bribe.

But for this horrid murder vile

None did him prosecute;

His old friend help'd him o'er the ftile:
With Satan who dispute

With France, fair England's mortal foe,
A trade he carry'd on ;

Had any other done 't, I trow
To Tripos he had gone.

That he did likewise traiterously,
To bring his ends to bear,
Enrich himself most knavishly;
O thief without compare!
Vaft quantities of ftores did he
Embezzle and purloin ;

Of the king's stores he kept a key,

Converting them to coin.

The forfeited estates also,

Both real and perfonal,

Did with the ftores together go,

Fierce Cerberus fwallow'd all.

Mean while the foldiers figh'd and fobb'd,

For not one foufe had they;

His Excellence had each man fobb'd,

For he had funk their pay.

Nero, without the least disguise,

The papists at all times

Still favour'd, and their robberies

Look'd on as trivial crimes.

The Protestants whom they did rob
During his government,

Were forc'd with patience, like good Job,

To reft themselves content.

For he did bafely them refuse

All legal remedy;

The Romans ftill he well did use,

Still fcreen'd their roguery.

Succinctly thus to you I 've told,
How this Viceroy did reign;
And other truths I fhall unfold,
For truth is always plain.

The Beft of Queens he hath revil'd,
Before and fince her death,
He, cruel and ungrateful, fmil'd
When the refign'd her breath.

Forgetful of the favours kind
She had on him beftow'd,
Like Lucifer his rancorous mind,
He lov'd nor her nor God.

But liften, Nero, lend thy ears,

As ftill thou haft them on;

Hear what Britannia fays with tears,

Of Anna dead and gone.

"Oh!

"Oh! facred be her memory,

"For ever dear her name!
"There never was, nor ere can be,
"A brighter, juster dame.

"Bleft be my fons, and eke all those
"Who on her praises dwell!
"She conquer'd Britain's fierceft foes,
"She did all queens excel.

"All princes, kings, and potentates,
"Ambaffadors did fend:

"All nations, provinces, and states,

Sought Anna for their friend.

"In Anna they did all confide,

"For Anna they could truft:
* Her royal faith they all had try'd,
"For Anna ftill was just.

“Truth, mercy, justice, did surround
"Her awful judgement-seat,
"In her the Graces all were found,
"In Anna all compleat.

"She held the fword and balance right,
"And fought her people's good :

"In clemency she did delight,

"Her reign not ftain'd with blood.

"Her gracious goodness, piety, "In all her deeds did fhine,

"And bounteous was her charity; "All attributes divine.

"Confum

"Confummate wisdom, meekness all,
"Adorn'd the words fhe spoke;
"When they from her fair lips did fall;
"And sweet her lovely look.

"Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
"She caus'd dire war to cease:

"A greater Emprefs ne'er was known,
"She fix'd the world in peace.

"This laft and godlike act atchiev'd,
“To Heaven she wing'd her flight:
"Her lofs with tears all Europe griev'd;
"Their strength, and dear delight.

"Leave we in blifs this heavenly Saint,
"Revere, ye just, her urn;
"Her virtues high and excellent,
"Aftrea gone we mourn.

"Commemorate, my fons, the day
"Which gave great Anna birth :

"Keep it for ever and for aye,

"And annual be your mirth!"

Illuftrious George now fills the throne,
Our wife benign good King:

Who can his wondrous deeds make known?
Or his bright actions fing?

Thee, favourite Nero, he has deign'd

To raise to high degree!

Well thou thy honours haft fuftain'd,

Well vouch'd thy ancestry.

But

But pafs

Thefe honours on thee laid,

Can they e'er make thee white?

Don't Gaphny's blood, which thou haft shed,

Thy guilty foul affright?

Oh! is there not, grim mortal, tell,

Places of blifs and woe?

Oh! is there not a heaven, a hell;
But whither wilt thou go?

Can nought change thy obdurate mind?

Wilt thou for ever rail?

The prophet on thee well refin'd,
And fet thy wit to fale.

How thou art loft to fenfe and fhame,
Three countries witness be:

Thy conduct all just men do blame,

Libera nos, Domine!

Dame Juftice waits thee, well I ween,

Her fword is brandifh'd high:

Nought can thee from her vengeance screen,
Nor canft thou from her fly.

Heavy her ire will fall on thee,
The glittering fteel is fure:

Sooner or later, all agree,

She cuts off the impure.

To her I leave thee, gloomy peer!
Think on thy crimes committed:
Repent, and be for once fincere,

Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted.

SONGS,