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 Lives in your great deaths: O these Have more fire than poesies! And more ardent than all ode, The pomps and raptures of your blood! By that blood ye hold in fee This earth of England; Kings are ye: And ye have armies—Want, and Cold, And heavy Judgments manifold Hung in the unhappy air, and Sins That the sick gorge to heave begins, Agonies and Martyrdoms, Love, Hope, Desire, and all that comes From the unwatered soul of man Gaping on God. These are the van Of conquest, these obey you; these, And all the strengths of weaknesses, That brazen walls disbed. Your hand, Princes, put forth to the command, And levy upon the guilty land Your saving wars; on it go down, Black beneath God's and heaven's frown; Your prevalent approaches make With unsustainable grace, and take Captive the land that captived you; To Christ enslave ye and subdue Her so bragged freedom: for the crime She wrought on you in antique time, Parcel the land among you; reign, Viceroys to your sweet Suzerain! Till she shall know This lesson in her overthrow: Hardest servitude has he That's jailed in arrogant liberty;