The GHOST of TOM ROSS To his Pupil the D. of Monmouth.  
Shame of my Life, Disturber of my Tomb,  
Base as thy Mother's Prostituted Womb;  
Hussing to Cowards, sawning to the Brave,  
To Knaves a Fool, to credulous Fools a Knave,  
The King's Betrayer, and the People's Slave.  
Like Samuel at the Necromantic Call,  
I rise to tell thee, God has left thee SAUL;  
I strive in vain thy Infected Blood to cure,  
Streams will run muddy where the Spring's Impure.  
In all Your meritorious Life we see  
Old TAFF'S invincible Sobriety.  
Places of the Master of the Horse, and Spy,  
You (like Tom Howard) did at once supply:  
From SYDNEY's Blood Your Loyalty did spring;  
You show us all your Fathers but the KING,  
From whose too tender and too bounteous arm's,  
(Unhappy He who such a Viper warms;  
As Dutiful a Subject, as a Son,)  
To Your tre Parents the whole Town you run  
Read if you can, how th'old Apostate fell,  
Outdo his Pride, and Merit more than Hell:  
Both He and You were gloriously bright,  
The First and Purest of the Sons of Light:  
But when like Him you offered at the Crown,  
Like Him, your angry Father kicked you down.  
FINIS.