 | Poems (1717) |  |
150
ROSS's GHOST.
Shame of my Life, Disturber of my Tomb,Base as thy Mother's prostituted Womb;
Huffing to Cowards, fawning to the Brave,
To Knaves a Fool, to cred'lous Fools a Knave,
The King's Betrayer, and the Peoples Slave.
Like Samuel, at thy Negromantick Call,
I rise, to tell thee, God has left thee, Saul.
I strove in vain th'Infected Blood to cure;
Streams will run muddy where the Spring's impure.
151
Old Taaf's invincible Sobriety.
Places of Master of the Horse, and Spy,
You (like Tom. Howard) did at once supply:
From Sidney's Blood your Loyalty did spring;
You show us all your Parents, but the King,
From whose too tender and too bounteous Arms,
(Unhappy he who such a Viper warms;
As dutiful a Subject, as a Son)
To your true Parent, the whole Town, you run.
Read, if you can, how th'old Apostate fell,
Out-do his Pride, and merit more than Hell:
Both he and you were glorious and bright
The first and fairest of the Sons of Light:
But when, like him, you offer'd at the Crown,
Like him, your angry Father kick'd you down.
| Poems (1717) | |