By secret Envy at thy growing State:
I lost my safety when I made thee Great.
There's not the least Injustice to you shewn;
You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne.
Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badge
Bestow'd by fits, and snatch'd away in Rage;
And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves
I may take from 'em when my Portsmouth raves.
Thou art a Creature of my own Creation;
Then swallow this without Capitulation.
If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a Clutter,
And make the People for your Sake to mutter,
For my own Comfort, but your Trouble, know,
G------fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.




AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE.

ENGLISH'D BY MR. DRYDEN.


O Last and Bests of Scots! Who didst maintain
Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign,
New People fill the Land now thou art gone,
New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne.
Scotland and thou did each in other live,
Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee, survive.
Farewell! who living didst support the State,