Thou conqueror of death, Glorious triumpher o'er the grave, Whose holy breath Was spent to save Lost mankind, make me to be styled Thy child, And take me when I die And go unto my dust; my soul Above the sky With saints enrol, That in thy arms, for ever, I May lie.

Before this master, this triumpher, this conqueror, this dictator, this Emperor, this all-powerful, there rises a solitary man, a wanderer, despoiled, ruined, prostrate, proscribed, and attacks him.

At this Truth we rejoyce, but yet aloofe, and in our owne valley, for we dare not approach with any capacity in our selves to apply your Smile, since wee have only preserved as Trustees to the Ashes of the Authors, what wee exhibit to your Honour, it being no more our owne, then those Imperiall Crownes and Garlands were the Souldiers, who were honourably designed for their Conveyance before the Triumpher to the Capitol.

Of all the first-born gods, because he gave her help, She raised up Kingu in the midst, she made him the greatest, To march in front of the host, to lead the whole, To begin the war of arms, to advance the attack, Forward in the fight to be the triumpher.