An ELEGY
On the Death of (the much to be lamented)
Anthony King of Poland,
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THe busie Toney, who by Toil unblest
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Torments himself, to break his Countreys Rest;
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Who, ceasing to be Engineer of State,
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Turn'd Rogue, yet could not turn the Wheels of Fate:
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Like Sysyphus, he rowls his Stone in vain;
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Death plucks his Tap, and ends his PLOTS and Pain.
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The Graves long Pampus Rebels must pass o're;
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Thence restless Raskals can return no more.
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Wretch of 3 Names farwel! Thy Deaths kind stretch,
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Secures Thee from the Sword and Axes reach;
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Thy Life, Old Tricker, stood in Fate so high,
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That Hang-man's hand was fit to make Thee die;
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Yes, Hang-man only frames Thy Funeral Urn:
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Less man than Hang-man Traytors shall not burn.
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What did Old Solon and Lycurgus do?
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They went to Amsterdam, and died too.
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Whil'st Belgick Boor Thee and Thy Tap Entombs,
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And tryumphs in the Brandy he assumes;
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Boor, who (in burying Thee) hath done much more,
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Than Trump or Opdam, who were dead before;
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Boor, with bright Spade, does more in Thy one Grave,
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Than in all Graves that his bright Spade e'r gave.
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Trick on, trick on, thou Will-with'-Wisp! now make
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New Broils in Hell, and never Requiem take,
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With Plots and Popery keep the Devil awake.
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May Thy tormented Ghost walk a large round,
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And its deserved Punishment resound,
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Till Carolina shall agasted stand,
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Mourning Kid-napper, who supply'd her Land:
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Let partial Whigs, through their false Opticks, find
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Thy Worth, and ever be, like Thee, half blind.
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Let Factious Varlets monstrous forms suggest;
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Such Ravens shall never croak i' th' Eagles Nest:
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Rail on, Phanaticks, vent your envious Gall,
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Your Toneys Tapping Arts have spoil'd ye all;
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From Meeting-house dissolved Tubs shall throw,
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And sneaking Tubster send to th' Room below:
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Yes, Mouse-trap-man, Thy rotten Loins lay down;
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Seducer of the Rabble, scorn o' th' Crown;
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In Treach'rous Arts and Trayt'rous Hearts so learn'd,
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His weight all hands of Whimsey-boards still turn'd:
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To him Rebellions Genius bended low;
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The Thrones Friend, when at th' Helm, when not, its Foe.
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If the worst gifts Malignant Stars dispense,
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If mis-applied strength of Wit and Sense,
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For lasting Infamy Foundations lay,
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No greater Kn--- was ever cloath'd in Clay;
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His restless Orb of Shams went swiftly round,
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And none but Raskals his kind Influence found:
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His gentler Rays, and Life-creating heat,
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The Land of Whigs and Betty Morris met:
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Th' unthinking Crowd he courted, and alone
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He dreamt to domineer i' th' British Zone.
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But, lost in his own Maze, he doth engage,
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With eager Malice, and with lasting rage;
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His Brain more hot than Copper-kettle boils,
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In Shops of Cooks about Py-corner-Piles.
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But Hells kind Call hath all his Consults crost;
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Hell, that hath plac'd him on a fiery Coast;
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Through glass he peeps, and sees his Tricks and Trick-ers lost.
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EPITAPH.
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UNder this Stone doth rotting lie
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All th' Devil has left of S---------y:
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No Funeral Tears, nor weeping Eyes
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The melting Sisterhood denies;
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Whilst Mine-heer thinks his Death to be
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A joyful Brandy-Jubilee.
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A firmer Friend to PLOTS and Pride
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In Holland heretofore ne'r dy'd;
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For which His Odious Name below,
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His Soul's above in Heaven. Oh no!
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It found no Lodging there, if He
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Speak Truth who always kept the Key:
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Adjudg'd to sit i' th' hottest Seat,
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The little Guest will do some Feat;
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And a fresh Fire in Hell will light,
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To entertain the wand'ring Salamanca-Wight.
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