Capt. Vrats's Ghost TO Count Coningsmark,
WHat's this disturbs my Quiet, and my Sleep,
And doth such Rustling of the Curtains keep?
Ah
Captain! What? my dear
Vrats's Ghost,
Who for my sake, Life, Fame, and Credit Lost;
And yet, none could of his Discovery boast?
Curst Man! Behold the Wretch, who for thy Cause,
Against Religion, Justice, and the Laws,
In Treach'rous Counsels did himself Ingage,
And basely Murder'd, where he knew no Rage.
What? Though Men brib'd may be, do'st fondly Hope
Vengeance to scape? No more than I the Rope.
From
Stygian Lake I come, thy Doom to Tell;
What Furies in thy Breast shall ever dwell;
What Tortures in thy Mind, what raging Hell
Of Torment, and Despair, both Day and Night
Thou still shal't bear about. No Joy, Delight,
Nor Peace expect; in Court, in Camp, in Field,
Alone, in Company; think nought shall shield
Thee from the constant haunt of each Man's Ghost,
Who by thy Means, or for Thee, Life has lost.
Not One, or Two bold Actions in the Wars,
Nor Souldiers Wounds, nor yet Ten Thousand Scars
Shall e're wipe off this Blot, this Infamy,
Which thus thy Scarlet, with a deeper Dye
Hath stain'd; the War-like Trophees of thy Fame,
Thy Stock, thy much before Reputed Name.
Who was't thus basely brought unto his End
The
Loyal Monmouth's
Wealthy Western Friend?
When Men shall ask; His Blood shall upwards Mount,
And cry, the Treach'rous Wiles of
Northern Count.
As through the
Abbey wondring strangers pass,
To view the Fabrick, Tombs, and painted Glass;
When the
Great Thynn's Rich
Monumental Shrine
(Which, like the Moon, 'mong lesser Stars doth Shine,)
Containing Sacred Relicks, Dust Divine;
They see, and by the Epitaph certifie'd,
How that by Murder he untimely dye'd:
Desire to know, who was the Cause; the Clarke
With Truth shall soon reply, Count
Coningsmark.
How hated wilt thou be, abhor'd thy Name,
When in the everlasting Leaves of Fame
Posterity shall read, and after-Ages,
Instructed from the Pens of Learned Sages,
Shall understand, this
Rich, Young, English Spark
Dy'd by the Trains of a False
Coningsmark?
Base▪ Wretch! What, though
Great Thynn's much greater Soul
Be Mounted far above the Starry Pole,
And his dead Corps secur'd lies under Ground?
Think not to scape the Furies thee surround,
The Cry, the Crime, the Stain, the Blot, the Guilt
Of his warm Blood for thee most basely spilt.
When thou
Vrats's Balmed Corps shalt see,
Think how he suffer'd, and how dy'd for Thee:
But also think, 'twas thy base Treach'rous Deed,
That caus'd his D
[...]th, as
Thynn before to Bleed.
If I a Souldier liv
[...], and Dog-like dy'd,
Know, that it was to softer up thy Pride.
Had not Revenge, or rather cruel Rage,
For a
defeated Match, made thee Ingage
In a Design, to take thy
Rival's Life,
By cow'rdly means, in hopes of his
Rich Wife;
In Life, in Death a Valiant Souldiers Fame
I might have had; but now a Murth'rer's Name.
My Fury therefore now expect to feel,
And deeper Wounds, than made by sharpest Steel.
Vrats's Ghost shall dog thee up and down,
And haunt thee from this City to that Town.
Hope not thy
Captain will be brib'd agen;
His Ghost now Thee must vex, not other Men.
'Tis now Resolv'd. Revenge to take, he aims,
For
Thynn's Blood, Venge'nce, and his own, he claims.
Rouze up thy self. Do'st not thou yonder see,
How
Sterne's Pale Ghost, inraged, looks on Thee?
Must his Blood unreveng'd be, who, deceiv'd
By me, for thee a Murd'rers Doom receiv'd?
Poor Ignorant
Borisky's angry Ghost,
See with what Rage it comes thee to accost?
Must He that Fatal Shot for ever rue,
His Corps in Chains be hung to all Men's view
And
Spect'cle made to
Forreigners for you?
Hast, hast, ye angry Ghosts; come on apace,
Let's take our full R
[...]enge now in this place:
Our
Deaths, as well as
Thynn's, for Venge'nce cry:
Wee'l not bear all the crime, nor Infamy;
He was the Cause, and therefore 'tis but due,
He bear a part, a share, with
Me and
You.
What, though Discharg'd from
England he be Fled?
His Guilt is ne'r the less for the Blood shed.
We might, (had not he prompted) to this Time
Have liv'd; Let's punish then in Him the Crime.
Hast then ye Furies, all your Tortures bring,
Your Snakes, your Racks, each Scorpi'n's lasting Sting.
"Come on Alecto,
with thy Flaming Whip,
And firk the
Counts young Hide: Thus make him Skip.
So cried the Ghost. The
Count lifts up his Head,
Amaz'd, with Fury leaps out of his Bed,
And calls for Light: 'Twas brought: The Ghost strait Fled.
FINIS.
LONDON, Printed for J. V. in Fleet-Street, 1682.