Job, Chapter 41

Can'st thou with a weake Angle strike the Whale?
Catch with a hooke, or with a noose inthrall?
Drag by a slender Line unto the Shore?
His huge Jaw with a twig or Bulrush bore?
Will he his pittifull complaints renew?
For freedome with afflicted Language sue?
Become thy willing Vassall? canst thou still
Subject him to the Service of thy Will?
And like a Sparrow, fetter'd in a String,
The plaid-with Monster to the Virgins bring?
Shall thy Companions feast upon his spoile?
Or wilt thou to the Merchant sell his Oyle?
Can'st thou with Fisgigs pierce him to the quicke?
Or in his skull thy barbed Trident sticke?
Then hasten to the charge. Yet Souldier feare:
Thinke of the Battaile, and in time forbeare.
Vaine are their hopes who seeke by force or slight
To vanquish him, who conquers with his sight.
What Mortall dare with such a foe contend?
Much lesse his hand against his Maker bend?
Can gifts my grace ingage? when all below
The lofty Sunne is mine, what can I owe?
This wonder of the Deepe, his mightie force,
And goodly forme, shall furnish our discourse.
Who can devest him of his waves? bestride
His monstrous Backe? and with a Bridle ride?
His Heads huge Dores unlocke? whose jawes with great
And dreadfull teeth in treble rankes are set.
Arm'd with refulgent Shields, together join'd,
And seal'd-up to resist the ruffling wind;
The neather by the upper fortifi'd:
No force their Combination can divide.
His sneezings set on fire the foaming Brine:
His round Eyes like the Mornings Eye-lids shine.
Infernall Lightning sallies from his Throat:
Ejected Sparkes upon the Billowes float.
A cloud of Smoake from his wide Nostrils flyes;
As Vapors from a boyling Furnace rise.
He burning Coles exhales, and vomits flames:
His strength the Empire of the Ocean claimes.
Loud Tempests, roaring flouds, and what affright
The trembling Sailer, turne to his delight.
The flakes of his tough flesh so firmely bound.
As not to be divorced by a wound.
His Heart a solid Rocke, to feare unknowne:
And harder than the Grinders nether Stone.
The sword his armed sides in vaine assailes:
No Dart nor Lance can penetrate his Scales.
Who Brasse as rotten wood; and Steele, no more
Regards then Reeds, that bristle on the Shore.
Dreads he the twanging of the Archers String?
Or singing Stones from the Phaenician sling?
Darts he esteemes as Straw, asunder torne:
The shaking of the Javelin laughes to scorne.
He ragged Stones beneath his Belly spreads;
To his repose as soft as downye Beds.
The Seas before him like a Caldron boyle:
And in the fervour of their Motion foyle.
A Light, stroke from the floods, detects his way;
Who covers their aspiring heads with gray.
Of all whom ample Earths round shoulders beare,
None equall this: created without feare.
What ever is exalted, he disdaines:
And as a King among the Mightie raignes.