Whose forehead knocks against the roof of stars,
Stands on her tiptoes, at fair England looking,
Kissing her hand, bowing her mighty breast,
And every sign of all submission making,
To be her sister, and the daughter both
Of our most sacred Maid.
…
And there do palaces and temples rise
Out of the earth and kiss the enamored skies,
Where New Britannia humbly kneels to Heaven,