But envious fate has claim'd its due, His prudence and his wit were seen That serving her was to be bless'd.- That men are beasts, and dogs have sense! Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes: Ne'er skulk'd from whence his sovereign led hım, EPIGRAM. To Richmond and Peterburgh, Mat gave his letters, And thought they were safe 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 post. THE VICEROY. A BALLAD. TO THE TUNE OF LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY. Or Nero, tyrant, petty king,1 He hated was by rich and poor, Full proud and arrogant was he, The guilty he would still set free, He, with a haughty impious nod, A patriot 2 of high degree, Who could no longer bear Against him did declare. 1 Lord Coningsby, one of the lords justices of Ireland. He is the same person mentioned in Down-hall. 2 The Earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby. 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. The articles recorded stand Search but the archives of the land,1 Attend, and justly I'll recite The heads set in their native light That traitorously he did abuse 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 On Protestants; his love to show, 1 Journal, Sabbati 16 die Decembris 1698. On all provisions destin'd for Though many men were sick. The suttlers too he did ordain Which they refus'd with just disdain, By which provisions were so scant, He so much lov'd his private gain, He could not hear or see They might, or die, or might complain Without relief pardie. That, above and against all right, By word of mouth did he, That he, O Ciel! without trial, No sooner said, but it was done, Gaphny, alas! is dead and gone, In this concise despotic way Full two good hundred pounds a year, Besides, he gave five hundred pound Who was his bail; one friend he found, But for this horrid murder vile None did him prosecute; His old friend help'd him o'er the stile: With Satan who dispute! With France, fair England's mortal foe. A trade he carried on; Had any other done't, I trow That he did likewise traitorously, |