How wringing wet with passion this hook of hoohas,barely hop away its doldrum,When vociferous coccoons or obstreperous indigos indignant slide to side their merry sloths and death they die before their grand quietus,Thou canst not be at hollow with thy derelicts and antecedence,o sweet vision,my bounteous booty,that i mayest with thy gallantry scaled the vertex or mounts of the himalayas and everest,upon which my latittude as the altitude and aptitude,perpetually flies as my greatest armour bearer,dare not thee dismay'd,but switch not from gallantry,that queen and king in my inner chamber,which in that ensconce,sweet Victory thy unborn child lay in its embryo,wherein pebbles of sonorous hoots and crying earth's envelopes eshew'd, O sweet victory from thy pregnant mother,when will thou be born?O sweet victory,the true price of liberty,let thy gracious light to the orient endears,Each homage doth glorious herald repays,When from thy loftiest pitch,adventuresome golden pilgrimage from its firmament breathes.