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But envious Fate has claim'd its due,
of True ; His deathless virtues must survive, To better us that are alive.
His prudence and his wit were seen
His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
Ε Ρ Ι I GR R A
T. Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt 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 Poit.
Τ Η Ε
Of Nero, tyrant, petty king *;
Who heretofore did reign
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 him felf did fear.
Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal ;
But guiltless men enthral.
* Lord Coningsby, one of the lords justices of Ireland. -He is the same person inentioned in Downhall:
He, with a haughty impious nod,
Would curse and dogmatize ; Nor fearing either man or God;
Gold he did idolize.
A patriot + 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 Don
Of his enormous crimes, Which I ’ll unfold to you anon,
In low, but faithful rhymes.
The articles recorded stand,
Against this peerless peer,
You'll find them written there.
Attend, and justly I'll recite
His treasons to you all,
(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.
+ The Earl of Bellamont impeached Copingsby. * Journal, Sabbati, 16 die Decembris, 1693.
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
Than Papist us'd them worse.
On all provisions destin'd for
The camp at Limerick,
Though many men were fick.
The futlers too he did ordain
For licences should pay,
And Aed the camp away.
By which provisions were fo fcant,
That hundreds there did die,
Nor famine could they fly.
He so much lov'd his private gain,
He could not hear or see ;
Without relief, PARDIE.
That be, 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 accurst.
In this concise despotic way
Unhappy Gaphny fell,
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 fay't.
Beldes, he gave five hundred pound
To Fielding his own scribe,
He ow'd him to the bribe.