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TRUTH TOLD A T L A S T.

AYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife,
“ You never yet told me one truth in your

life.” Vext Pontia no way could this thesis allow, “ You’re a Cuckold, says she; do I tell you truth now?"

SAYS

Written in Lady Howe's Ovid's Epistles.
HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair,

However great the dying lover's care,
Ovid, kind author, found him some relief,
Rang’d his unruly sighs, and set his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain'd him pity, sometimes love.
But, oh! what pangs torment the destin'd heart,
That feels the wound, yet dares not shew the dart !
What care could Ovid to his forrows give,
Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live ?

Α Ν E P I S T L E,

17160 I

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

ELKANAH SETTLE,

Α Ν Ο Τ Η Ε R EPIST L E.
I

Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to assign

When she shall receive a turkey and chine ; • That a body may come to St. James's, to dine.

TRUE'S

S4

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T R U E’s E P I T A P H.
IF wit or honesty could fave

Our mouldering ashes from the grave,
This stone had still remain’d unmark'd,
I still writ prose, True still have bark’d.
But envious Fate has claim'd its due,
Here lies the mortal part of True;
His deathless virtues muft survive,
-To better us that are alive.

His prudence and his wit were seen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,
He own’d the power, and lov'd the Queen.
By long obedience he confeft
That ferving her was to be blest.-
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 skulk'd from whence his sovereign led him,
Or snarl'd against the hand that fed him.-
Read this, ye statesmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour !

E P I G R A M.
TO Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his letters,
And thought they were safe in the hands of his

betters. How happend it then that the packets were lost: These were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of the Poft. 7

THE

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THE VICEROY, A BALLAD.

To thc Tune of, Lady ISABELLA's Tragedy.
O F Nero, tyrant, petty king *,

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 shall hear ;
So ill he exercis'd his

power,
That he himfelf did fear.
Full proud and arrogant was heg.

And covetous withal ;
The guilty he would still fet free,

But guiltless men enthral.
He, with a haughty impious nod,

Would curse and dogmatize;
Not fearing either man or God:

Gold he did idolize.
A patriot f 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 Dog

Of his enormous crimes,
Which I 'll unfold to you anon,

In low, but faithful rhymeș. * Lord Coningsby, one of the lords justices of Ireland. + The Earl of Bellamont impcached 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 set in their native light

(And figh poor Gaphny's fall). That traiterously he did abuse

The power in him repos'd ; And wickedly the same did use,

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 Protestants ; his love to show,

Than Papist us’d them worse.
On all provisions destin'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 should pay,
Which they refus’d with just disdain,

And fled the camp away.
* Journal, Sabbati, 16 die Decembris, 1693.

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By which provisions were so fcant,

That hundreds there did die,
The soldiers 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 sooner said, but it was done,

The bourreau did his worst;
Gaphny, alas ! is dead and gone,

And left his judge accurft.
In this concise despotic way

Unhappy Gaphny fell,
Which did all honest men affray,

As truly it might well.
Full two good hundred pounds a year,
This

poor man's real estate, He settled on his favourite dear,

And Culliford can say ’t.

Besides,

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