SULLA'S GHOST: A satire Against AMBITION, AND The Last Horrid Plot.  
— Sejanus ducitur unco Spectandus, gaudent omnes, Quae labra, quis illi Vultus erat, Nunquam (fi quid mihi credis) amavi Hunc hominem.—  Juven. 
LONDON, Printed by John Harefinch, in Mountague-Court, in Little Britain, MDCLXXXIII.   

To His Grace CHRISTOPHER DUKE OF ALBEMARLE, etc.  
May it please your Grace,  
WERE I to present a Poem equal to your Grace's merit, I should justly be guilty of a Crime unpardonable, in addressing this, which contains nothing but the unpolished draughts of an incultivated Muse, and therefore must implore Your Grace's pardon for the Presumption I take to send it into the Censorious World under your Grace's Patronage; all that I can say in its Defence is, that though it may appear rude and disordered, not set forth with so Beautiful an Outside, nor dressed in such gaudy Trappings, as the real and innate worth of the Subject aught to Challenge, yet your Grace will soon discern the footsteps of a Loyal Endeavour; and indeed nothing ought to Presume to approach your Grace's hands, but what has some Impression of Loyalty instamped upon it.  
If Virtue be the only Nobility, certainly there is no greater Virtue than Loyalty, and consequently no greater Nohility; it blasts the long and tedious Rolls of Pedigrees, and makes Antiquity itself become her adorer.  
Nam Genus, & Proavos, & quae non fecimus ipsi Vix ea Nostra voco—  
Yet if Nobility can be derived from Ancestors, your Grace has a double Claim to it, the unparallelled Actions of your renowned Father, (whom the best of Kings, our present Sovereign, Honoured with the Appellation of Father) render your Grace Noble, but your Virtue and unshaken Loyalty render you much more so, not only an Heir to his Fortunes and Honours, but to his stock of Virtues, which your Grace has so far improved, that I might truly style you, (and without flattery) one of the strongest Props and Pillars both of Church and State. And, my Lord, I have all the reason in the world to Confirm it, when I consider in how lofty and sublime a Sphere his Majesty has been pleased to place you, where your Grace shines like a Star of our first Magnitude, and one of the brightest Jewels in his Sacred Crown.  
This (my Lord) arms me with the Confidence to lay this my poor, yet Loyal endeavour, at your Grace's Feet, where I doubt not, but it will meet with a Candid Entertainment. Thus once more imploring your Grace's Pardon, wishing you length of Days, and a continual increase of Riches and Honour, I am  
Your Grace's Most Humble, and Devoted Servant, C. C.   

A satire against AMBITION AND THE Last Horrid Plot.  

IN Golden times, when Saturn's peaceful Throne  
Was undisturbed by his aspiring Son;  
When just Astraea poised her equal Scales;  
Whose flight the Earth ere since, in vain, bewails;  
When Peace, and smiling Innocence possessed  
The spotless mansions of each happy Breast;  
No Birds but Halcyons ploughed the fragrant Air,  
And every thing moved tuneful in its Sphere,  
When influenced by kind Heaven, the teeming Soil  
Brought forth her Fruits without or pain or toil;  
It was an happy Age, no Pride was then  
e'er known to fill the furious breasts of men;  
No Sin, or Gild was then, no factious Jars,  
No Civil Tumults, nor intestine Wars,  
No Mortal wounds were then by Discord made,  
No reaking Gore e'er soiled the shining Blade;  
Seditious madness than could never arm  
This whiter Age of Love to public harm;  
Happy was man then in so blest a fate,  
A little lower than an Angel's state:  
Then in a dismal Vault, where Phoebus' ray  
Never approached, nor the least spark of Day;  
Howling, in Chains, the Fiend Ambition lay.  
Nor knew she how to exercise her rage,  
And fire men's Breasts, till the succeeding Age;  
Till haughty Jove rebellious proved, to show  
What his great Mind would for heavens Empire do,  
Usurped the Throne, and his own Father slew;  
Straight than he set the green-eyed Monster free,  
And bade her roam and range at Liberty.   

Scarce was young Jove settled in's Father's Throne,  
Scarce did he call the Diadem his own,  
‛ Ere rank Ambition had possessed the World,  
And o'er the spacious Earth its plagues had hurled.  
Jove shook his Tresses, and with Fury said,  
Since the black Venom o'er the Earth is spread;  
Since all Mankind's in horrid Vice involved,  
And my great Power slighted, I'm resolved  
Nor Prayr's nor Tears shall o'er my will prevail,  
The foaming waves shall come and ruin all.   

Thus said— heavens Casements straight did open fly,  
And floods of horrid Rain rushed from the darkened Sky.   

Scarce was his mighty Fury at an end,  
Scarce he began to People th' Earth again;  
But a new stock of Monsters straight was grown,  
Not by our Grandsire Deucalion sown;  
But rankly sprung from cursed Ambition's Seed,  
('Tis fair to look on, but a poisonous weed,)  
Titans they called 'em, each with hundred hands,  
Contemn Jove's Thunder, and his Power withstand.  
These soon resolved to seize his mighty Crown,  
And from Heav'ns-Arch pull the Usurper down.  
Ossa upon Olympus' top they threw,  
And then huge Pelion upon Ossa too,  
Two or three Mountains more they thought would do.  
Till Jove's loud Thunder from the injured Sky,  
Made the Earth's Sons in their own Mother lie.  
Whose cursed Offspring has e'er since remained,  
And o'er the Universe vast Conquests gained.   

Did not the firstborn man, the mighty Cain,  
With furious Emulation fired, disdain  
That any, nay, a Brother's Sacrifice,  
To Heaven, should more grateful prove than his:  
Nought but his Blood atoned the sacred Crime;  
Tho he himself was made the Curse of Time.  
How did Abimelech, the Tyrant, sway,  
And his great Soul to horrid deeds betray,  
As Seventy Brethren at one blow to slay?   

Nay, the more base, and weaker Woman can,  
In this, outdo the Lordly Creature Man.  
Did not the furious Athaliah, fired  
With hot Ambition, and with rage inspired,  
All branches of the Regal-Line cut down,  
Whose Birth might make 'em look towards a Crown?   

Ah, cursed Ambition! Honour-blasting fume,  
Canker of Greatness, that dost all consume;  
The Curse of Kingdoms, and the Bane of States,  
On whom so many fatal Mischiefs wait.  
O the attempts this Hellborn Greatness makes!  
What horrid Methods and dire Rules it takes  
Basely to compass its designed Ends,  
Treading upon the Necks of dearest Friends,  
Brother 'gainst brother plots, and Sons inquire  
Into the age of their too long-lived Sires;  
Strangers with Iron-rods must bruise the Land,  
And all alike must bow to th' conquering hand.  
The greedy Rich, the needy Poor devour,  
Their Judge was Appetite, their Law was Power;  
Robbers the Field, and Soldiers sacked the Town,  
No sense of Dangers could Oppression drown;  
I'th' Court, or open Forum to complain,  
Was Crime enough to plague you worse again;  
Nor was their Lust less lawless, or less bold  
Than all their studied Arts for Blood, and Gold.  
Weak Beauties they decoyed, and forced the strong,  
And made no difference 'twixt the old and young;  
Nor did the Sword's less cruel Empire cease,  
But ruled and raged alike in War and Peace:  
Virgins were ravished, aged Matrons made  
Objects of Lust, and Victims to the Blade;  
Nor the least pity or remorse was shown,  
From their first shriek, to their last dying groan:  
Infants were pulled from their dear Parents Arms,  
Their Prayers and tender tears had lost their charms,  
The Temples flaming, and the Gods pulled down,  
And blood and ruin raged in every Town,  
Old-age dishonoured, lawless Youth bore rule,  
And Virtue made a sneaking Ridicule.   

Methinks I see grim Scylla's Ghost appear  
With furious looks, and wild dishevelled hair,  
Pointing out Death and slaughter every where,  
Prompting the Catilines of this headstrong Age  
To Plots, and Treasons, and Intestine Rage;  
I hear the Snakes hiss from the Fury's head,  
And see around the place their Venom spread;  
Methinks I see the horrid Fiend arise,  
Darting infernal lightning from his Eyes;  
Methinks I view him at the damned Cabal,  
And each Conspirator by Name doth call;  
Go on, Great Patriots, with your worthy Cause,  
Contemn all Monarches, and confront their Laws;  
Go on, in your religious Villainy;  
And be as famed for horrid deeds as I:  
Think on the Mischiefs I before have done,  
When Son the Father killed, Father the Son;  
O that I had but Jove's Celestial Fire,  
I soon with my fell Rage would you inspire,  
That still should urge you, still your thoughts possess,  
With monstrous and Gigantic wickedness.  
Or, would the cruel Destinies once more  
For a short space my thread of. Life restore,  
What glorious and unheard of Deeds I'd do,  
Death should be tired, and I would still pursue  
New horror, till no horror could could be new.  
No Sex, nor Age should 'scape my Cruelty,  
Nor Infants in the Porch of Life be free.  
Thus have I done to be for ever known,  
Thus have I done to make the World my own.  
But first, young Pupils, I'd begin at home,  
And there lay the first Scene of Blood to come;  
Amuse the Rabble, buzz into their Ears,  
And dun 'em still with Jealousies and Fears;  
Tell them that Strangers would your Rights invade,  
And you yourselves be Slaves to strangers made:  
Tell them of dire Portents, and fearful Signs,  
(Fit masks to cover all your black Designs)  
Of Jago-Pilgrims, Armies in the Air,  
And Traitors, though you tell not who or where;  
When you yourselves the real Traitors are.  
Assert your Liberties, and maintain your Rights,  
And even be the People's Favourites;  
Let every Plot, let every base Design,  
Clothed with Religion's fairest outside, shine;  
'Twill please the Vulgar, and advance the Cause  
That bleeding lies, crushed by the stronger Laws;  
Still let Religion be the specious prize,  
When Wealth and Interest at the bottom lies;  
Interest makes Cowards valiant, Parties great,  
And is the rankest Venom in a State.  
Think on your Wants, and let their force prompt on  
Your freeborn Souls to Insurrection;  
If any Roman blood flows in your Veins,  
If any spark of Roman fire remains;  
Think on your Debts abroad, and Wants at home,  
And that more desperate Slavery to come;  
Your Youth is blooming, and your Age in prime,  
And all conspire to bless the grand Design;  
Your number's mighty, and your Party strong,  
Rise then, great Spirits, and revenge your wrong:  
Nought but your Sloth and Folly can prevent  
So great, so pious, and so brave Attempt;  
Unless, like vulgar Slaves, you'd rather die,  
Than freeborn men to live victoriously.—   

So said— an ominous silence filled the place,  
And Horror straight appeared in every Face;  
With Groans and desperate Rage departs the Fiend,  
But left his loathsome, sulphurous Breath behind.   

— The cursed Advice no longer was withstood,  
They straight resolved to christian all in Blood;  
Voting it Justice, Innocents' to kill,  
And meritorious, Royal-blood to spill.  
Too well they knew what secret Magic lies  
In their Religion, Rights and Properties:  
This arms the Rout, and makes the Faction great,  
And breeds the tallest Monsters in a State.   

The first that moved within this Treacherous Sphere  
Was once a real fixed, now wand'ring Star.  
Ah! Lentulus, how Graceful was thy mien?  
In thy fair Breast what Virtues once were seen?  
Flushed with green Honour in his Golden days,  
His early Valour won the Victor's Bays.  
His blooming Fame by every Muse was sung;  
And his great Name the echoing Valleys rung.  
He forced the Northern Rebels to obey,  
And to their Caesar just Allegiance pay.   

In Peace no less was his great Youth approved,  
Adored by many, but by all belov'd;  
Still by his Gracious Father was caressed,  
With more than common Happiness possessed,  
And in his Favour tightly blessed.  
Then he was Loyal— had he kept but here,  
He still had shined within our Hemisphere,  
Had not the too large draughts of Honour's bowl  
Debauched his Genius, and o'ercharged his Soul:  
Had not that Pigmy-Proteus of the State  
Decoyed his Sense, and urged him to his Fate;  
By him he fell, by him his Easy Breast  
Was with Ambition's towering thoughts possessed,  
Hence was it, that he needs must soar so high,  
To spread his Streamers in the open Sky;  
Big with vain hopes, he traversed all the Land,  
Whilst hot-brained crowds still pressed to kiss his hand;  
These drank his Health in every jocund Bowl,  
And with the thoughts of Empire charmed his Soul,  
That three Cornelii were to reign in Rome,  
Cinna and Sylla passed, and Lentulus to come;  
These with loud shouts, and acclamations high,  
Send up his bubble-Name to th' lofty Sky;  
The Cod bless Lentulus, was all their cry.  
Thus on the wings of Popular applause  
He bore the Idol of the Rout, the Cause.  
Royal and Rebel too! 'tis wondrous strange;  
What Circean Charm could work so ill a change?  
Like him of old, (as sacred Stories tell)  
The Rebel-regiment of Angels fell;  
How happy still, how glorious had they been,  
Had not Ambition been a Godlike sin?  
Th' Almighty Power they boldly did defy,  
And thought to Lord it o'er the Deity;  
Till to the dark Abyss of horrid Night  
He forced the plotting Troops to take their flight.   

Next him, though deeper in the black Design,  
For horrid deeds renowned, was Catiline,  
With a foul Soul in a fair Body fixed;  
Thus Aconite with th' choicest Wines is mixed;  
Fair to the outside, but within doth kill,  
Like deadly Venom in a Golden Pill.  
Betimes Ambition his hot thoughts possessed,  
And sowed its fatal Seeds within his Breast.  
Nor did his thoughts only on Greatness run,  
Nor did Ambition only reign alone:  
Well might Aurelia curse th' unhappy day,  
When at her feet her Rebel-brother lay:  
When naked from his lewd, incestuous Bed,  
Trembling, and pale, the debauched Charmer fled.  
Ah, Catiline! the Gods are ever just,  
And oft severely punish Lust with Lust;  
Else why did beauteous Laura spend her Charms  
Within the Circle of another's Arms?  
Must this to Plots and Massacres invite?  
And thy bold Soul to Treason straight excite?  
Could nought your lawless bloody rage suffice,  
But Godlike Caesar fall the Sacrifice?  
And for none other Crime than this alone,  
For being his Glorious Martyred Father's Son.   

Next him in order rash Cethegus came,  
One that by Blood and Wounds hath got a Name,  
An upstart Bully, whose chief Talon lies  
In Swearing, Duels, nauseous Whores, and Dice.  
Down with 'em to the Ground, the Hotspur bawls,  
Not all Jove's thunder shall prevent their falls.  
Lop every Branch of the Caesarean Line,  
To prove Succession's not of Right Divine,  
What my Strong Arm ' ere now has done, you know,  
For want of work 'twill dull and useless grow,  
'S'death, I'll murder all the Senate at a blow.  
The talking Consul shall in Flames expire,  
And his own Palace prove his funeral pyre.   

Mistaken Hector, stop thy rash career,  
Princes, and States are Heavens peculiar Care,  
The Gods protecting them, protected are.  
Think what in Scotland thou before was't known,  
Then a Moss-Trooper, now a Vagabond;  
Think on thy former Murders, think though Fate  
Defers a while, yet 'twill not always wait;  
Traitors at last to their own Grief will find  
The Gods are never deaf, nor like Tiresias blind.   

Next the Scotch Augur enters, who but he,  
The Chaplain to the precious Villainy;  
That motley Popish-puritan, who swears  
'Tis meritorious, what the Party dares.  
All the past precedents that are now in Hell,  
Cannot this Priestly Villain parallel;  
What Bigots are those silly Fools, he cries,  
That a religious Monarch Idolise?  
When Princes by their Subject's Fury fall,  
Th' old Romish Gentleman shall pay for all.  
That Prince that doth his Subject's Rights annoy,  
'Tis fit his Subjects should that Prince destroy.  
It is not for Religion that he dies,  
But for his Subjects Rights and Liberties;  
'Tis such a deeded would make the whole World shake  
And Foreign Princes more indulgent make,  
And other Subjects our Example take;  
'Tis great, and glorious, and would raise our Names  
Higher than his that fired Diana's Fane.  
And he that this transcendent deed shall do,  
To his great Name a lasting Statue's due,  
Higher than th' Monument, and deserves to be  
Enrolled amongst the Liberatores Patriae.   

These things thus ransacked in the dire Cabal,  
Some neighbouring Forces to their Aid they call,  
The Scotch Allobroges were soon betrayed,  
And Horse and Armour promised to their Aid.  
A People envious of the Roman Fame,  
And bore a mortal hatred to their Name;  
unnatural Monsters, who to break their Chain  
Would still rebel, though knew 'twas but in vain.   

Thus when they'd every where Sedition sown,  
And the rank Venom to that height was grown,  
Though with the greatest care, the impious Crew  
Concealed the Villainy they thought to do;  
Though Plots on Plots, and new Designs were laid,  
Yet still they were discovered, still betrayed;  
When at the last, Impatient of Delay,  
The Purging Poison found its Sought-for-way.  
Then like obscene, and dismal Birds of Prey,  
Dreading the piercing Power of Phoebus' ray,  
To bogs, and Gloomy Regions took their flight,  
And Skul'kt in the obscurer shades of Night.   

Soon as the horrid Stratagem took Air,  
And reached the injured Godlike Caesar's Ear,  
The pious Prince with sacred anger fired;  
(Like some great Prophet from above inspired)  
Unhappy men, said he, that know no odds,  
Between my Peaceful reign, and Cromwel's Iron-rods,  
What makes 'em thus in love with misery?  
And free-born-men to Plot for slavery?  
Has time yet the remembrance worn away,  
Of that deplorable, unhappy day,  
When at the stake three helpless Kingdoms lay?  
When all the Isle by threatening storms was tossed,  
When That a King, and I a Father lost;  
What loss, what ruin did we then sustain?  
And must the same be Acted o'er again?  
Have we not felt great heavens avenging hand,  
But lately stretched to vex our factious Land!  
What raging Pestilence has there lately been,  
When Thousands gasping in one Street were seen  
Yet all too little to atone the Sin.  
That done— succeeded Next, th' all-Conquering fire,  
And Earth as well as Heaven did Conspire  
To purge the Nation, and avenge the Blood,  
Of a slain Monarch, one so great, so good;  
Must wretched Albion then for ever be  
The only stage of Blood and Cruelty?  
No more let Mercy and indulgent Grace  
Possess the wronged Astraeas' awful Place.  
No more shall it be said, the tottering Cause  
Shall go unpunished by th' impartial Laws;  
But let unbiass'd Sentence still be given,  
'Twill wash the Gild, and grateful be to Heaven.   

But why, ye mighty Powers, should Caesar prove  
So much unhappy in his Subject's Love?  
'Twas never known that Heaven afflictions sent  
Upon a Prince that's wholly Innocent;  
Why should Sedition with so black a die,  
Strike at such sacred marks as Majesty?  
Are these the tender-Concienc'd-men, who dare  
Attempt what others do with horror hear;  
That would to Moloch sacrifice the Nation  
Under the specious mask of Reformation.  
Grant Heaven their fury may no further run,  
They've killed the Father, and would fain the Son.  
Let their Seditious Rage be at an end,  
And smiling Peace once more the Throne ascend.  
No more let Impious Faction rule the Day,  
Nor point to Anarchy th' unhappy Way;  
Let all Rebellion, Discord, Vice, and Rage,  
That have in Patriots forms debauched our Age,  
Vanish with all the Ministers of Hell,  
And meet the Fate of base Achitophel.  
No more let Civil Wars torment our Isle,  
But all things with an Halcyon quiet smile,  
And Caesar blest with more than Nestor's Years,  
(Caesar, the Theme of all our Prayers and Tears)  
With Choicest blessings, Heaven crown his Reign,  
And grant once more our Golden Age again.  
In him let every Subject happy prove,  
And he be happy in each Subjects Love.   
FINIS.