AN Epilogue to the French Midwife's Tragedy, Who was Burnt in Leicester-Fields, March 2. 1687. 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 it self must write an ELEGY;
Nor can such Guilt ev'n 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
Lull'd 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 ev'n dread to look where thou ne'r dread'st to climb.
Who to her Fate a Path like Thee could choose;
A Fate unmourn'd? as if resolved to lose
Even that last stake the VVretched ne're forgo,
Pity the last Inheritance of VVoe.
Nay, to be yet more miserable still,
Thy hideous Tale that sullied Page shall fill;
On harden'd Brass Thy Fame shall written be,
If possible more harden'd ev'n 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 conquer'd Gyants, still would rise,
And heave beneath the Mountains where it lies.
Nay, t' heighten 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 kill'd,
Her vigorous Arm with youthfull sinews fill'd,
And stoutly following the Triumphant Stroak,
Unbrancht, Unlimb'd, She hew'd the falling Oak;
VVhile 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,
Betray'd to some old jealous Misers Bed,
To Impotence, to Age and Aches VVed;
Her Chamber-walls, her Dungeon, and her Tomb,
Lockt up from Foraging, yet starv'd at home:
Had this mew'd 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,
VVould scarcely to a Nine Days wonder Live.
But Hobry, Thy more Execrated shame
Shall even survive the Great Medea's 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 Exit's thy Great Merits due.
Behold the wanton flames sport round thy head,
Resolved to have thy Funeral Ashes spread
VVide as thy Husbands scatter'd Limbs we're laid.
Heaven's Roof's Thy Marble, and the VVorld 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 Narro'er Grave.
FINIS.
This may be Printed, R. P.
London, Printed for Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall, 1688.