V. Barnaby Barnes

RIDE on in glorie, on the morning’s wings,

Thrice puissant Conqueror, in glorie ride;

That heaven, as horse, couragious doth bestride,

Who, whether thou disposest, succour brings.

Ride on the glorious cloudes, high King of kings!

Thy conquering sworde girde to thy puissant side;

Bright soldiours muster up, whose armies guide,

Raungde into quadraines and triumphant rings.

That shamelesse strumpet of proud Babilon,

Which thine apostles killes, and prophets stoneth,

With cuppe full of abhomination,

Which poysons millions, and no man bemoneth,

With her false, proud, and antichristian route

Suppresse, and put to slaughter rounde about.