Vast quantities of stores did he Of the king's stores he kept a key, The forfeited estates also, Did with the stores together go, Fierce Cerberus swallow'd all. Meanwhile the soldiers sigh'd and sobb'd, His excellence had each man fobb'd, Nero, without the least disguise, The protestants whom they did rob Were forc'd with patience, like good Job, To rest themselves content. For he did basely them refuse All legal remedy; The Romans still he well did use, Succinctly thus to you I've told, How this Viceroy did reign; And other truths I shall unfold, The best of queens he hath revil'd, Forgetful of the favours kind But listen, Nero, lend thine ears, "Oh! sacred be her memory, "Blest be my sons, and eke all those "All princes, kings, and potentates, All nations, provinces, and states, "In Anna they did all confide, For Anna they could trust: Her royal faith they all had tried, For Anna still was just. "Truth, mercy, justice, did surround In her the Graces all were found, "She held the sword and balance right, And sought her people's good: In clemency she did delight, Her reign not stain'd with blood. "Her gracious goodness, piety, "Consummate wisdom, meekness all, Adorn'd the words she spoke, When they from her fair lips did fall; And sweet her lovely look. "Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown, "This last and godlike act achiev❜d, To heaven she wing'd her flight: Her loss with tears all Europe griev'd; "Leave we in bliss this heavenly saint, Revere, ye just, her urn; Her virtues high and excellent, "Commemorate, my sons, the day Keep it for ever and for aye, Illustrious 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 hast sustain'd, But pass-These honours on thee laid, Don't Gaphny's blood, which thou hast shed, Thy guilty soul affright? Oh! is there not, grim mortal, tell, Places of bliss 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, How thou art lost to sense and shame, Dame Justice waits thee, well I ween, Nought can thee from her vengeance screen, Heavy her ire will fall on thee, She cuts off the impure. To her I leave thee, gloomy peer! Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted. |