The judge of torments and the king of teares, He fills a burnisht throne of quenchlesse fire: And for his old faire roabes of light, he weares A gloomy mantle of darke flames; the tire That crownes his hated head on high appeares: Where seav'n tall hornes (his empire's pride) aspire. And to make up Hell's majesty, each horne Seav'n crested Hydras, horribly adorne. VII. His eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night, Startle the dull ayre with a dismall red: Such his fell glances, as the fatall light Of staring comets, that looke kingdomes dead. From his black nostrills, and blew lips, in spight Of Hell's owne stinke, a worser stench is spread. His breath Hell's lightning is: and each deepe groane Disdaines to think that Heav'n thunders alone. VIII. His flaming eyes' dire exhalation, Vnto a dreadfull pile gives fiery breath; Whose unconsum'd consumption preys upon The never-dying life of a long death. In this sad house of slow destruction, (His shop of flames) hee fryes himself, beneath A masse of woes; his teeth for torment gnash, While his steele sides sound with his tayle's strong lash. IX. Three rigourous virgins waiting still behind, Assist the throne of th' iron-sceptred king. With whips of thornes and knotty vipers twin'd They rouse him, when his ranke thoughts need a sting. Their lockes are beds of uncomb'd snakes that wind About their shady browes in wanton rings. Thus reignes the wrathfull king, and while he reignes, His scepter and himselfe both he disdaines. X. Disdainefull wretch! how hath one bold sinne cost Thee all the beauties of thy once bright eyes! How hath one black eclipse cancell'd, and crost The glories that did gild thee in thy rise! Proud morning of a perverse day! how lost Art thou unto thy selfe, thou too selfe-wise Narcissus! foolish Phaeton! who for all Thy high-aym'd hopes, gaind'st but a flaming fall. XI. From Death's sad shades to the life-breathing ayre, This mortall enemy to mankind's good, Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care, To become beautifull in humane blood. Where Iordan melts his chrystall, to make faire The fields of Palestine, with so pure a flood, There does he fixe his eyes: and there detect New matter, to make good his great suspect. XII. He calls to mind th' old quarrell, and what sparke Set the contending sons of Heav'n on fire: Oft in his deepe thought he revolves the darke Sibill's divining leaves: he does enquire Into th' old prophesies, trembling to marke How many present prodigies conspire, To crowne their past predictions, both he layes Together, in his pondrous mind both weighs. XIII.