AN
Epilogue to the French Midwifes Tragedy,
Who was Burnt in Leicester-Fields, March 2. 1687/8.
FOR THE
Barbarous Murder of her Husband Denis Hobry.
|
IF Mighty Verse like great Omnipotence,
|
Can both Rewards and Punishments dispense,
|
Verse that strows Sweets or Cankers on the Grave,
|
That Brands the Impious, and Embalms the Brave;
|
Horrour itself must write an ELEGY;
|
Nor can such Guilt evn with the Guilty Die.
|
At common stakes the Malefacter dies,
|
His Funeral Rites in his Spectators Eyes.
|
Beyond the stroke we hear no more the Name:
|
As if his limited Breath and bounded Shame
|
Lulld in one slumber to one Grave should go,
|
Whilst Justice strikes, and Pity seals the Blow.
|
But, Fatal Hobry, thy unhappier Hands,
|
(As if thou hadst studied for Eternal Brands)
|
Soard to that Height, to that Exalted Crime;
|
Our Eyes evn dread to look where thou ner dreadst to climb.
|
Who to her Fate a Path like Thee could choose;
|
A Fate unmournd? as if resolved to lose
|
Even that last stake the Wretched nere forgo,
|
Pity the last Inheritance of Woe.
|
Nay, to be yet more miserable still,
|
Thy hideous Tale that sullied Page shall fill;
|
On hardend Brass Thy Fame shall written be,
|
If possible more hardend evn then Thee.
|
But sure Thy Death might wash Thy Stain away!
|
No! though the Debts to blood in blood we pay,
|
Heap Rocks on Rocks, Thy Infamy unhusht,
|
By all that pondrous weight too feebly crusht,
|
Like the old conquerd Gyants, still would rise,
|
And heave beneath the Mountains where it lies.
|
Nay, theighten the black Dye thy story wears
|
The Perpetration acted at Thy years!
|
T increase the Prodigy, so hot the Rage,
|
At so decrepit, and so cold an Age;
|
By Times long Frozen Hand, Thy feeble Arm---
|
But oh! what Frost can chill where Hell can warm?
|
Methinks I saw the sleeping Husband killd,
|
Her vigorous Arm with youthfull sinews filld,
|
And stoutly following the Triumphant Stroak,
|
Unbrancht, Unlimbd, She hewd the falling Oak;
|
While peeping Vengeance, that reserved the Meed
|
Of Treason, lookt all ghastly at the Deed.
|
Had some young Girl by covetous Parents Doom,
|
In Natures Prime, in Youth and Beauties Bloom,
|
Betrayd to some old jealous Misers Bed,
|
To Impotence, to Age and Aches Wed;
|
Her Chamber-walls, her Dungeon, and her Tomb,
|
Lockt up from Foraging, yet starvd at home:
|
Had this mewd slave, to meet some dearer Charms,
|
And run to a more darling Lovers Arms,
|
A Cawdle spiced, or cut a Jugular Vein,
|
Her Jaylor laid asleep to break her Chain;
|
The Murdering Blow her pitied hand should give,
|
Would scarcely to a Nine Days wonder Live.
|
But Hobry, Thy more Execrated shame
|
Shall even survive the Great Medeas Name.
|
The mangled Brothers Limbs that Sorceress tore,
|
In dull Oblivion lost, shall live no more.
|
But twas a Deed thy Arm alone durst do,
|
And thy Great Exits thy Great Merits due.
|
Behold the wanton flames sport round thy head,
|
Resolved to have thy Funeral Ashes spread
|
Wide as thy Husbands scatterd Limbs were laid.
|
Heavens Roofs Thy Marble, and the World thy Tomb.
|
Yes, twas but just Thy Dust should find that Room,
|
That large, that spacious Sepulcher should have,
|
The Stench too noysome for a Narroer Grave.
|
|
|
|
|
|