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 strews Sweets or Cankers on the Grave,  
That Brands the Impious, and Embalms the Brave;  
Horror itself must write an ELEGY;  
Nor can such Gild even with the Guilty Die.  
At common stakes the malefactor 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  
Lulled 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)  
Soared to that Height, to that Exalted Crime;  
Our Eyes even dread to look where thou ne'er dread'st to climb.  
Who to her Fate a Path like Thee could choose;  
A Fate unmourned? as if resolved to lose  
Even that last stake the Wretched ne'er forgo,  
Pity the last Inheritance of Woe.  
Nay, to be yet more miserable still,  
Thy hideous Tale that sullied Page shall fill;  
On hardened Brass Thy Fame shall written be,  
If possible more hardened even 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 ponderous weight too feebly crushed,  
Like the old conquered Giants, 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 i'll where Hell can warm?  
Methinks I saw the sleeping Husband killed,  
Her vigorous Arm with youthful sinews filled,  
And stoutly following the Triumphant Stroke,  
Unbrancht, Unlimbed, She hewed the falling Oak;  
While peeping Vengeance, that reserved the Meed  
Of Treason, looked all ghastly at the Deed.   

Had some young Girl by covetous Parents Doom,  
In Nature's Prime, in Youth and Beauties Bloom,  
Betrayed to some old jealous Miser's Bed,  
To Impotence, to Age and Aches Wed;  
Her Chamber-walls, her Dungeon, and her Tomb,  
Locked up from Foraging, yet starved at home:  
Had this mewed slave, to meet some dearer Charms,  
And run to a more darling Lover's Arms,  
A Caudle spiced, or cut a Jugular Vein,  
Her Jailor 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 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  
Wide as thy Husband's scattered Limbs we're laid.  
Heaven's Roof's Thy Marble, and the World thy Tomb.  
Yes, 'twas but just Thy Dust should find that Room,  
That large, that spacious Sepulchre should have,  
The Stench too noisome for a Narro'er Grave.   
FINIS.   

This may be Printed, R. P.  
London, Printed for Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall, 1688.