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death_n die_v know_v life_n 12,632 5 4.7308 4 true
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ID Title Author Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) STC Words Pages
A33593 Capt. Vrats's ghost to Count Coningsmark by a Western gentleman. Western gentleman. 1682 (1682) Wing C487; ESTC R7529 1,627 4

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Capt. Vrats's Ghost TO Count Coningsmark BY A WESTERN GENTLEMAN 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 't was 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. 'T is 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 't is 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 'T was brought The Ghost strait Fled FINIS LONDON Printed for J. V. in Fleet-Street 1682.