What thy Alecto, what these hands can doe, Thou mad'st bold proofe upon the brow of Heav'n, Nor should'st thou bate in pride, because that now To these thy sooty kingdomes thou art driven. Let Heav'n's Lord chide above lowder than thou In language of His thunder, thou art even With Him below: here thou art lord alone, Boundlesse and absolute: Hell is thine owne. XXXV. If usuall wit, and strength will doe no good, Vertues of stones, nor herbes: use stronger charmes, Anger and love, best hookes of humane blood. If all faile, wee'l put on our proudest armes, And pouring on Heav'n's face the Sea's huge flood Quench His curl'd fires: wee'l wake with our alarmes Ruine, where e're she sleepes at Nature's feet: And crush the World till His wide corners meet. XXXVI. Reply'd the proud king, O my crowne's defence, Stay of my strong hopes, you of whose brave worth, The frighted stars tooke faint experience, When 'gainst the Thunder's mouth we marchèd forth: Still you are prodigall of your Love's expence In our great projects, both 'gainst Heav'n and Earth: I thanke you all, but one must single out: Cruelty, she alone shall cure my doubt. XXXVII. Fourth of the cursèd knot of hags is shee, Or rather all the other three in one; Hell's shop of slaughter shee do's oversee, And still assist the execution. But chiefly there do's she delight to be, Where Hell's capacious cauldron is set on: And while the black soules boile in their own gore, To hold them down, and looke that none seeth o're. XXXVIII. Thrice howl'd the caves of Night, and thrice the sound, Thundring upon the bankes of those black lakes, Rung through the hollow vaults of Hell profound: At last her listning eares the noise o're takes, She lifts her sooty lampes, and looking round, A gen'rall hisse from the whole tire of snakes Rebounding, through Hell's inmost cavernes came, In answer to her formidable name. XXXIX. 'Mongst all the palaces in Hell's command, No one so mercilesse as this of her's. The adamantine doors, for ever stand Impenetrable, both to prai'rs and teares; The walls inexorable steele, no hand Of Time, or teeth of hungry Ruine feares. Their ugly ornaments are the bloody staines Of ragged limbs, torne sculls, and dasht-out braines. XL. There has the purple Vengeance a proud seat Whose ever-brandisht sword is sheath'd in blood: About her Hate, Wrath, Warre and Slaughter sweat; Bathing their hot limbs in life's pretious flood: There rude impetuous Rage do's storme and fret, And there as master of this murd'ring brood, Swinging a huge sith stands impartiall Death: _scythe_ With endlesse businesse almost out of breath. XLI.