The flying Globe, the Glass thereon,
Those fragments of a Skeleton?
The Bays, the Palms, the Fighting men,
10And written Scroll?—Come tell me then,
Did thy o'er-curious eye e'er see
An apter scheme of Misery?
What's all that Gold and sparkling Stones
To that bald Skull, to those Cross Bones?
What mean those Blades (whom we adore)
To stain the Earth with purple gore?