The flaile-finn'd Thresher, and steel-beak'd Sword-fish Onely attempt to doe, what all doe wish. The Thresher backs him, and to beate begins; The sluggard Whale yeelds to oppression, And t'hide himselfe from shame and danger, downe 355 Begins to sinke; the Swordfish upward spins, And gores him with his beake; his staffe-like finnes, So well the one, his sword the other plyes, That now a scoffe, and prey, this tyran dyes, And (his owne dole) feeds with himselfe all companies. 360 XXXVII. Who will revenge his death? or who will call Those to account, that thought, and wrought his fall? The heires of slaine kings, wee see are often so Transported with the joy of what they get, That they, revenge and obsequies forget, 365 Nor will against such men the people goe, Because h'is now dead, to whom they should show Love in that act; Some kings by vice being growne So needy of subjects love, that of their own They thinke they lose, if love be to the dead Prince shown. 370 XXXVIII. This Soule, now free from prison, and passion, Hath yet a little indignation That so small hammers should so soone downe beat So great a castle. And having for her house Got the streight cloyster of a wreched mouse 375 (As basest men that have not what to eate, Nor enjoy ought, doe farre more hate the great Then they, who good repos'd estates possesse) This Soule, late taught that great things might by lesse Be slain, to gallant mischiefe doth herselfe addresse. 380 XXXIX. Natures great master-peece, an Elephant, The onely harmlesse great thing; the giant Of beasts; who thought, no more had gone, to make one wise But to be just, and thankfull, loth to offend, (Yet nature hath given him no knees to bend) 385 Himselfe he up-props, on himselfe relies, And foe to none, suspects no enemies, Still sleeping stood; vex't not his fantasie Blacke dreames; like an unbent bow, carelesly His sinewy Proboscis did remisly lie: 390 XL. In which as in a gallery this mouse Walk'd, and surveid the roomes of this vast house, And to the braine, the soules bedchamber, went, And gnaw'd the life cords there; Like a whole towne Cleane undermin'd, the slaine beast tumbled downe; 395 With him the murtherer dies, whom envy sent To kill, not scape, (for, only hee that ment To die, did ever kill a man of better roome,) And thus he made his foe, his prey, and tombe: Who cares not to turn back, may any whither come. 400 XLI.