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Befides, he gave five hundred pound
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 France, fair England's mortal foe,
Had any other done 't, I trow
That he did likewise traiterously,
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
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,
The Beft of Queens he hath revil'd,
Forgetful of the favours kind
But liften, Nero, lend thy ears,
As ftill thou haft them on;
Hear what Britannia fays with tears,
Of Anna dead and gone.
"Oh! facred be her memory,
"For ever dear her name!
"Bleft be my fons, and eke all those
"All princes, kings, and potentates,
"All nations, provinces, and states,
Sought Anna for their friend.
"In Anna they did all confide,
"For Anna they could truft:
“Truth, mercy, justice, did surround
"She held the fword and balance right,
"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.
"Confummate wisdom, meekness all,
"Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
"A greater Emprefs ne'er was known,
"This laft and godlike act atchiev'd,
"Leave we in blifs this heavenly Saint,
"Commemorate, my fons, the day
"Keep it for ever and for aye,
"And annual be your mirth!"
Illuftrious George now fills the throne,
Who can his wondrous deeds make known?
Thee, favourite Nero, he has deign'd
To raise to high degree!
Well thou thy honours haft fuftain'd,
Well vouch'd thy ancestry.
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;
Can nought change thy obdurate mind?
Wilt thou for ever rail?
The prophet on thee well refin'd,
How thou art loft to fenfe and fhame,
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,
Heavy her ire will fall on thee,
Sooner or later, all agree,
She cuts off the impure.
To her I leave thee, gloomy peer!
Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted.