A satire ON THE Pretended Ghost Of the Late Lord RUSSEL.  Si Natura negat, facit Indignatio Versum. Juv. Sat. 1. 

WHen sullen Darkness had o'er-spread the face  
O'th Universe, when th'Sun had ceased to grace  
The spacious Earth with his Illustrious Beams,  
And dipped his Golden Head i'th western streams;  
When every Mortal was disposed to rest,  
And anxious care was banished from each breast:  
tired with the Labours of the fore-past day,  
Each one to sweet Repose makes hast away.  
When pleasant sleep had closed up every eye,  
And every honest man did slumbering lie:  
When none but Tories staggered up and down,  
And Bullies, to disturb our peaceful Town.  
Like Owls and bats they shun the hated Light,  
To act their deeds of darkness in the Night.  
Then did begin this Pleasant comedy,  
unchurch proved to th' Actor almost a tragedy;  
As by the Sequel, you will plainly see.  
The envious Tories with the Devil combined,  
T' asperse that noble Lord, who lately shined  
As a bright Star, in our terrestrial sphere,  
Alas too glorious to continue here  
Longer amongst poor Mortals; but he's gon  
To join in Consort, with the Heavenly throng:  
Where he enjoys eternal peace and rest,  
And with Felicitie's, for ever blessed:  
Above the reach of the malicious hate  
Of wicked Tories, and of cruel fate  
That would allow to's Life no longer date.  
But now the scene begins, O horrid sight!  
A dreadful Ghost appears, dressed all in white:  
Enough to scar a Tory out of 's senses,  
Who loves to see nothing in white but wenches.  
And thus he did begin, with hollow voice,  
And a shrill tone, uttered with doleful noise.  
I am the late renowned Lord Russel's Ghost,  
That with a Lye'n my mouth went off the Chast  
Of this vain World: O what a grievous pother  
Is made o'th' Speech of which I'm not the Author:  
For though it went disguised under my Name,  
Yet Doctor Burnet only made the same:  
I cannot rest in quiet in my Grave—  
No, says the honest Whig, then thou shalt have  
That which will make thee; 'T was no sooner said,  
But straight the Restless Ghost he bravely laid.  
Not by th' uncertain Art of magic Spells:  
Or pious cheats, used in Religious Cells;  
But the ne'er failing, sovereign Remedy  
Did to 's Jolt-Head, and Asses Ears apply,  
Of oil of Club, which did him so deface  
St. Dunstan's Devil, was ne'er in such a case.  
Thus was the Foppish, and unthinking Sot  
catched in the Noose of his own shallow Plot.  
Like silly witches when in greatest distress  
Left by the Fiend they adored, find no redress:  
even so did our deluded wretched Cully  
Reap the Reward, of his prodigious Folly:  
Left by the Devil his master, and too late  
For him to escape,( O inevitable Fate!)  
Without sound drubbing, and a broken Pate.  
O Horrid villainy, as ever can  
Be perpretated by perfidious man!  
Towzer, the wide mouthed Bandog of the Nation  
May have new matter for his Observation,  
Since Tory visions, are come into fashion.  
The whiggish Maid of Hatfield was a cheat:  
'Tis this gigantic Soul must do the feat.  
What envious Roger, and his yelping Crew,  
Wanted by sense and reason to prove true,  
This Gallant counterfitted Ghost must do.  
Over the dead t' insult, and cicatrise  
Argues but base, unmanly cowardice.  
Yet when this Noble Lord to natured paid  
His Debt, their rancourd malice was not stayed:  
steeped in the Livid gull of raging Passion  
To Sacrifice his former Reputation,  
By shamming, cheats, and Lies upon the Nation.  
Thanks to kind Heavens, Defenders of the good  
And just, which all their cursed designs withstood:  
laughed at their Pride and Folly, and has cast,  
On this their well formed Tory Plot a Blast.  
Therefore let every honest man engage  
In hearty Votes to Heaven to save our Age,  
From Popish Malice, and from Tory Rage.   By J. H. 
FINIS.   

Entred according to Order.   

London, Printed for Edw. Golding.