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Spectrum Anti-Monarchicum.
OR, THE Ghost of Hugh Peters, AS He lately Appeared to his Beloved Son, the whole Assembly OF Fanatick Presbyters.
LO! from the dark Recess of deepest Hell,
Where nought but Souls of blackest Traytors dwell,
Thy Faithless Father comes, whose Cursed Change,
Has made him farr more Active for Revenge.
Awake! and see how (wrapt in flames) I stand
With Injur'd Head lopt off by Hangman's hand.
Lo! its Wise Tongue that spoke that God-like Reason.
Which Daunted Chits and Loyal Fools call Treason.
See! how 'twixt fester'd lips it doth Lament
Of Pains Impatient as of Government.
Ah! Pity Son, Pity thy Father's Case,
Who so unjustly has been doom'd 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, 't 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—