THE ANSWER OF Coleman's Ghost, TO H. N's. POETICK OFFERING.
RISE
Nevil, Rise, and do not punish me,
With the vain sight of your Idolatry.
You may with equal Reason call upon
The good Saint
Icarus or
Phaeton,
Who do the Sacred Name deserve as far,
As some who Blush in
Roman Kalendar:
With like Ambition I design'd to know
No other Triumphs but of things below;
And rather labour'd how there might be given,
French Crowns, postponing all the Crowns of Heaven.
Favour'd in this, because kind Heaven declines
My high Intrigues, and baffles my Designs.
None with more covetous Zeal pursu'd our Cause,
Or fell a more due Sacrifice to Laws.
In that sad Day when strangled Life Expir'd,
And the just flames my bloody Limbs requir'd,
Whilst my hot Soul in hasty flight retires,
From
Tyburns only
Purgatory Fires.
Immortal shapes crowd on in Troops to view,
My Plotting Soul and stopt me as I flew,
Such Spirits who Incarnate ever mov'd
In their By-Paths, and never quiet lov'd.
The Cunning
Machiavel drew near and fear'd,
Screek't at the sight of me and disapeard.
Shewing how weak all human Plotts are laid,
Where Hopes and Souls have always been betray'd.
Scylla and
Marius wondring at our Crimes,
Pittied the near misfortune of our times,
Sigh'd at those streams of blood which were to run,
And curst our Tables of Proscription.
Fierce
Catiline our Villany decry'd,
To whom the bold
Cethegus soon reply'd,
How New
Rome imitates and yet exceeds
In dire Conspiracies our puny deeds!
Great
Caesars Ghost with Envy lookt on me,
That for
Romes sake I aim'd at more than he,
To Conquer all the Isles of
Britanny,
Yet blam'd the Cruelties which were to come,
From that Dictator which now Reigns at
Rome.
Spiritual Dictator! who more controuls
Than he, and claps his Fetters on our Souls?
He told me Old
Romes Walls had longer stood,
If
Romulus had spar'd his Brothers blood.
And that
Romes happiness grew alwaies worse,
When it resembled the fierce Wolf its Nurse.
Ah, my good Friend, how clearly do I find,
In this new State the faults of human kind.
Nothing procures so high a Place above,
As universal Charity and Love,
Infus'd and manag'd by the Heavenly Dove.
Heav'n is a quiet Kingdom which we call
Your injur'd Scriptures true Original.
There no false Comments on the Text appear,
Nor must
Trents Spurious Council domineer.
Sometime with me, Dear
Nevil, you must grant,
The Church Triumphant to be Protestant.
If against them on Earth
Romes malice thrives,
'Tis not
Romes Cause prevails, but their ill Lives.
So
Babylon of old vext
Israel,
And wicked Men raise Enemies from Hell.
As once on Earth I did your good attend,
So now for Love I am your Ghostly Friend:
Let your Soul hate all bloody ways and things,
To subvert States and Laws, to murther Kings.
Or you are sure to equal my disgrace,
And without Mercy, you may name your place.
FINIS.