And this than iron spear offended more:
Then how much more the mist of lime-dust fine!
Then how the emptied vessel, burning sore With nitre, sulphur, pitch, and turpentine!
Nor idle lie the fiery hoops in store, Which, wreathed about with flaming tresses, shine.
These at the foemen scaled, upon all hands, Form cruel garlands for the paynim bands.