Spectrum Anti-Monarchicum.  
OR, THE Ghost of Hugh Peter, AS He lately Appeared to his Beloved Son, the whole Assembly OF Fanatic Presbyters.  

LO! from the dark Recess of deepest Hell,  
Where nought but Souls of blackest Traitors dwell,  
Thy Faithless Father comes, whose Cursed Change,  
Has made him far more Active for Revenge.  
Awake! and see how (wrapped in flames) I stand  
With Injured Head lopped off by Hangman's hand.  
Lo! its Wise Tongue that spoke that Godlike Reason.  
Which Daunted Chits and Loyal Fools call Treason.  
See! how 'twixt festered lips it doth Lament  
Of Pains Impatient as of Government.  
Ah! Pity Son, Pity thy Father's Case,  
Who so unjustly has been doomed this Place;  
A Thousand Tortures hurry through my Blood  
Black with Infection as the Stygian Flood.  
Now sportive Devils with their tricks of youth,  
Naked as (what I never knew) the Truth,  
With Senses too too Apt for Life, it expire,  
Drag my unwasting Carcase through the fire.  
Then Brawny Fiends full grown for Painful blow  
With Rods of Sulphur lash me to and fro—  
All Anguish as I run this Dismal Chase,  
The Aged Imps spit Nitre in my Face.  
Thus Plunged in griefs when I for Mercy cry,  
Insatiate Hell Echoes Eternity!  
This, this, All this, my Darling boy! I feel  
Only for Hatching up a Common-Weal.  
For th' Pious Rescue of your Ravished Laws,  
And nobly fight for the good old Cause.  
For making room for Conscience 'gainst your Prince,  
For which it has been larger ever since.  
For frugal Building up a Tub, in which  
The Spawling Sot might Brew as well as Preach,  
For Cropping Ceremonies, pulling down  
The Church, that We might circumcise the Crown.  
For Casting Lots upon the Bishop's Lawn,  
And making their Possessions Puritan.  
For turning Top of House toth' House of Prayer,  
And sighing till the Organ-Pipes came there.  
For Robbing Sinful Steeples of their Mettles  
Beat into Honest Nonconformist Kettles.  
For Sweeping Choirs of Prebendaries clean,  
Led by a great fat Bell-Wether, a Dean.  
For boldly Levelling these Proud Degrees,  
And burning Carmens' Frocks called Surplices.  
For long defending of your harmless Lives,  
Your Precious Liberties, and Pious Wives.  

For such blessed Deeds, such Meritorious things;  
Nay! and for this, which greater Anguish brings,  
The little Venial Crime of Killing Kings.   
And canst thou hear my troubled Spirit groan  
For speedy Vengeance on that Guilty Throne,  
And want that saving Virtue to Rebel,  
And Damn it with that Law by which I fell?  
Art thou not Tyrant-crushed? art thou not he  
Wouldst blast Succession for thy Liberty?  
Art thou not Prelate bound? art thou not one  
Wouldst Smite that Beast? nay! art thou not my Son?  
That Matchless Name of Issue may suffice:  
'Tis my Malignant Blood that Qualifies  
For strict Revenge, and can your Soul Possess  
With Ills as Damned as is my Damned Distress,  
You told me once you would my Griefs abate,  
And then Petitioned Hell to vindicate  
My Wrongs with thee. What dire Consults? how foul  
Were thy Resolves? such as made Fury's howl,  
Dread Devils shrink, fresh Judgements rage's about,  
And Caverns burst to let its Poison out.  
'Twas in the Sulphry Womb of Acheron,  
Where these delightful Counsels first began.  
A Thousands Legions Conventicled there,  
All Sons of Envy Sullen with despair.  
Whilst you the Mystery of my Cause discussed,  
And Rhadamanthus Cried, Revenge was Just.  
'Twas here, thou didst Recount and Whisper me  
Your Years of Falsehood, Days of Loyalty.  
Didst thou not tell me thou couldst wisely sound  
Riddles of State, that thou mightst States confound,  
That thou couldst Set the Trampled Subject free,  
And boldly Muzzle Awful Majesty;  
Raise new Asylums and Protect our Lives,  
By Rifling Kings to Steal Prerogatives?  
If these thy Virtues are? lo! then to die,  
Turns my sad Conflict into Victory:  
No more I will my Wretched doubts Pursue,  
My bloody Principles I find in You.  
You and We Devils did together fall.  
Rebellion is the Essence of us All.   
FINIS.