Which Doom’d the Hebrew Vassals to Obey,
It pleas’d the Pow’r of an Almighty Hand
To Scourge a stubborn King, and sinful Land,
With ten afflictions, grievous to a Realm,
Where Pride and Superstition sat at Helm.
Yet Wrath Divine was not so much Display’d,
To make a wise Creator be Obey’d,
But that indulging Heaven kept in store,
For Ireland, a dozen Plagues and more.
Nits make their Youths, before they’re Old, look Grey,