And These Gems Of Heav'n, Her Starry

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap.

To Overcome In Battle, And Subdue Nations, And Bring Home Spoils With Infinite Man-slaughter, Shall Be Held The Highest Pitch Of Human Glory.

The Starry Cope Of Heaven.

Execute Their Airy Purposes.

But O Yet More Miserable! Myself My Sepulchre, A Moving Grave.