And glid along the river of the dead. Though anger mov’d him, yet he might have spoke, Since I to him. But my desires were strook With sight of other souls. And then I saw Minos, that minister’d to Death a law, And Jove’s bright son was. He was set, and sway’d A golden sceptre; and to him did plead A sort of others, set about his throne, In Pluto’s wide-door’d house; when straight came on Mighty Orion, who was hunting there The herds of those beasts he had slaughter’d here In desert hills on earth. A club he bore, Entirely steel, whose virtues never wore. Tityus I saw, to whom the glorious earth Open’d her womb, and gave unhappy birth. Upwards, and flat upon the pavement, lay His ample limbs, that spread in their display Nine acres’ compass. On his bosom sat Two vultures, digging, through his caul of fat, Into his liver with their crookéd beaks; And each by turns the concrete entrail breaks (As smiths their steel beat) set on either side. Nor doth he ever labour to divide His liver and their beaks, nor with his hand Offer them off, but suffers by command Of th’ angry Thund’rer, off’ring to enforce His love Latona, in the close recourse She us’d to Pytho through the dancing land, Smooth Panopëus. I saw likewise stand, Up to the chin, amidst a liquid lake, Tormented Tantalus, yet could not slake His burning thirst. Oft as his scornful cup Th’ old man would taste, so oft ’twas swallow’d up, And all the black earth to his feet descried, Divine pow’r (plaguing him) the lake still dried. About his head, on high trees, clust’ring, hung Pears, apples, granates, olives ever-young, Delicious figs, and many fruit-trees more Of other burden; whose alluring store When th’ old soul striv’d to pluck, the winds from sight, In gloomy vapours, made them vanish quite. There saw I Sisyphus in infinite moan, With both hands heaving up a massy stone, And on his tip-toes racking all his height, To wrest up to a mountain-top his freight; When prest to rest it there, his nerves quite spent, Down rush’d the deadly quarry, the event Of all his torture new to raise again; To which straight set his never-rested pain. The sweat came gushing out from ev’ry pore And on his head a standing mist he wore, Reeking from thence, as if a cloud of dust Were rais’d about it. Down with these was thrust The idol of the force of Hercules, But his firm self did no such fate oppress, He feasting lives amongst th’ Immortal States, White-ankled Hebe and himself made mates In heav’nly nuptials. Hebe, Jove’s dear race, And Juno’s whom the golden sandals grace. About him flew the clamours of the dead Like fowls, and still stoop’d cuffing at his head. He with his bow, like Night, stalk’d up and down, His shaft still nock’d, and hurling round his frown At those vex’d hov’rers, aiming at them still, And still, as shooting out, desire to still. A horrid bawdrick wore he thwart his breast, The thong all-gold, in which were forms imprest, Where art and miracle drew equal breaths,