Oft, On A Plat Of Rising Ground,

Th' Imperial Ensign, Which Full High Advanc'd Shone Like A Meteor, Streaming To The Wind.

Flowers Of All Hue, And Without Thorn The Rose.

Spirits That Live Throughout, Vital In Every Part, Not As Frail Man, In Entrails, Heart Or Head, Liver Or Reins, Cannot But By Annihilating Die.

Hell Has No Benefits, Only Torture.

And These Gems Of Heav'n, Her Starry Train.