Capt. Vrats' 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' Ghost,  
Who for my sake, Life, Fame, and Credit Lost;  
And yet, none could of his Discovery boast?    

Cursed Man! Behold the Wretch, who for thy Cause,  
Against Religion, Justice, and the Laws,  
In Treacherous Counsels did himself Engage,  
And basely Murdered, where he knew no Rage.  
What? Though Men bribed may be, dost fond 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 shalt 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 Soldiers Wounds, nor yet Ten Thousand Scars  
Shall e'er wipe off this Blot, this Infamy,  
Which thus thy Scarlet, with a deeper Dye  
Hath stained; the Warlike Trophies 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 Treacherous Wiles of Northern Count  
As through the Abbey wondering strangers pass,  
To view the Fabric, Tombs, and painted Glass;  

When the Great Thynn's Rich Monumental Shrine  
(Which, like the Moon, 'mong lesser Stars doth Shine,)  
Containing Sacred Relics, Dust Divine;   
They see, and by the Epitaph certifieed,  
How that by Murder he untimely died:  
Desire to know, who was the Cause; the Clerk  
With Truth shall soon reply, Count Coningsmark.  
How hated wilt thou be, abhorred 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  
Died 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 Corpse secured lies under Ground?  
Think not to scape the Furies thee surround,  
The Cry, the Crime, the Stain, the Blot, the Gild  
Of his warm Blood for thee most basely spilt.  
When thou Vrats' Balmed Corpse shalt see,  
Think how he suffered, and how died for Thee:  
But also think, 'twas thy base Treacherous Deed,  
That caused his D●●th, as Thynn before to Bleed.  
If I a Soldier liure, and Doglike died,  
Know, that it was to softer up thy Pride.  
Had not Revenge, or rather cruel Rage,  
For a defeated Match, made thee Engage  
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 Soldier's 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' Ghost shall dog thee up and down,  
And haunt thee from this City to that Town.  
Hope not thy Captain will be bribed again;  
His Ghost now Thee must vex, not other Men.  
'Tis now Resolved. Revenge to take, he aims,  
For Thynn's Blood, Venge'nce, and his own, he claims.  
Rouse up thyself. Dost not thou yonder see,  
How Sterne's Pale Ghost, enraged, looks on Thee?  
Must his Blood unrevenged be, who, deceived  
By me, for thee a Murderers Doom received?  
Poor Ignorant Borisky's angry Ghost,  
See with what Rage it comes thee to accost?  

Must He that Fatal Shot for ever rue,  
His Corpse in Chains be hung to all Men's view  
And Spect'cle made to Foreigners for you?   
Hast, hast, ye angry Ghosts; come on apace,  
Let's take our full Revenge now in this place:  
Our Deaths, as well as Thynn's, for Venge'nce cry:  
we'll 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 Discharged from England he be Fled?  
His Gild is ne'er the less for the Blood shed.  
We might, (had not he prompted) to this Time  
Have lived; Let's punish then in Him the Crime.  
Hast than ye Furies, all your Tortures bring,  
Your Snakes, your Racks, each Scorpi'n's lasting Sting.  
" Come on Allecto, with thy Flaming Whip,  
And firk the Counts young Hide: Thus make him Skip.   

So cried the Ghost. The Count lifts up his Head,  
Amazed, with Fury leaps out of his Bed,  
And calls for Light: 'Twas brought: The Ghost straight Fled.    
FINIS.  

LONDON, Printed for J. V in Fleetstreet, 1682.