







 
   
     
       
         Epilogue to the French midwife's tragedy who was burnt in Leicester-Fields, March 2, 1687/8, for the barbarous murder of her husband Denis Hobry / this may be printed, R.P.
         Settle, Elkanah, 1648-1724.
      
       
         
           1688
        
      
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         A92956
         Wing S2680A
         ESTC R224443
         38875641
         ocm 38875641
         152366
         
           
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             Epilogue to the French midwife's tragedy who was burnt in Leicester-Fields, March 2, 1687/8, for the barbarous murder of her husband Denis Hobry / this may be printed, R.P.
             Settle, Elkanah, 1648-1724.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             Printed for Randal Taylor ...,
             London :
             1688.
          
           
             In verse.
             Attributed to Elkanah Settle by Wing (2nd ed.).
             Reproduction of original in: Bodleian Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Hobry, Marie, d. 1688.
           Hobry, Denis, d. 1688.
           Murder -- England.
           Broadsides -- London (England) -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           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
             't
             was
             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
             ,
             't
             was
             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.
           
        
      
    
  

