By Lissie and Hans Frederik to Sylvia 

“What fear might make a giant waver
What coward can thee make of me?
Know’th thou not what thee waiteth in eternity?
Thy flesh will soon fall out of favor.
Liv'st thou but for bread and thine emergency?
Thou silly mortal, heed thy Savior!

What monsters make thy mind so narrow?
What pity thoughts are hunting thee?
Foolish niggard soul, nay bullets cannot shatter me.	
Like arrows sharp, I burst thy marrow:
Convert thy ways — or forever quivering flee,
As winter's frost haunts woeful sparrow.

My words are dire
Melt ore like fire
Are more to fear than any Thompson submachine.”

The tongue she speak'th hath cent'ries turning,
In thousand years it will resound.
Who durst contest; beware of flames forever burning!
Whom trembleth not in lady's presence,
In wickedness will He eternally confound,
As female shape carrieth His essence.