University of Virginia Library

Accursed Topheth! how shall I define
This dismal Dungeon, this sad Cell of thine?
So dusky, dark, so wholly void of light,
How shall I see to draw thy Picture right?
What colours shall I use? Colours said I,
Thou art all black, black as Proserpines eye.
Deep, and declive, beneath the dead Sea is
In a blind hole, this thy all black abyss.
Thy pitchy Palace, where the chearly Sun
Ne're comes, as out of his Commission.
Nor lends the Moon so much as one odd night,
To qualifie thy darknesse with her light.
Which we but sleep by? No, nor all the Year,
Does one small Star on thy dark front appear.
Thou blackest Moor ask but thy Danaan train,
Their Tub-task tells thee, thou art Labour in vain.
Go ask Ixion else, or him whose stone
Gathers no moss, they all conclude in one.
Thou the true Negro art, and Patentee
Of utter shades, there is no night but thee.
The darknesse the Ægyptians felt, was but
A Type of thine, and that too fairly cut.
Tartarious Tullian, how thy tract is trod
To Baalzebub, Knight of the black Rod?
Whose haggy hair curls into snaky torts
More terrible than Poets poor reports.
His gashly, yea, his grisly look is such,
My sense forsakes me if I think on't much.
His Horns, the fire-fork is wherewith he turns
Those broyling sceletons, he ever burns.
In flames that never shall be quencht, but hark!
I talk of flames, and yet I call Hell dark!
Flames, it is true, there are, but black, not bright,
Yea there is Fire, and yet no Fire-light.

Foul Fiend! Thy Nose is like a Comet, or
The tail of some prodigious Meteor.
Well may it serve thee for a red hot pur,
Wherewith thou dost thy stifling Sulphur stir.
Thy sooty Eye-brows are as black as coals,
Smoakt with thine eyes that flame like Oven holes.
Mean while the corners where fresh Brimstom lies,
Portends a yellow Jaundise in thine eyes.
Or rather the black Jaundise is thy grief,
But thy Disease admits of no relief.
Thy mouth, like raging Ætna, vomits fire,
The furious flames of thy unslackt desire.
As much attractive, and as merc'less as
The seven times hotter heated furnace was.
Thine arms are fiery Fetters that embrace
Those Monuments of misery, whose sad case,
Thou dost not pitty, though thou seem'st a while,
To weep upon them, like the Crocodile.
Have You not heard of smoaking Sodom? such
His breath's, but Sodom smoaks not halfe so much,
His veyns are streams of Sulphur; his loud lungs
His bellows, and his hideous hands, his tongues.
His black, and Melancholly blood contains
Worse poyson than e're lurkt in Centaurs veyns.
And, by his cloven foot, 'tis plainly shown,
His Kingdom runs upon division.

These are his titles; The Unfathom'd Gulfe,
The Roaring Lyon, and the Raging Wolfe.
The Wilde-Boar of the Forrest, the Annoyer
Of Christian Liberty, the Destroyer.
The mortal Enemy of all Mankind,
By these and such like terms is he defin'd.
Father of falshood, Feces of the Cup
Of Condemnation, who can summe thee up.
Or set thee forth? No hand can e're effect it,
Unlesse that hand that captiv'd thee direct it.
Envy her Ensign on thy front displayes,
And like the balsilisk at distance slayes.
Thy nose, steep as the Alps, parts two deep Cells,
On this side hatred, that side malice dwells.
And, cause such Beauty some preservative ask
Shame and Confusion are thy constant mask.
But least my Charcoal fail to finish thee,
Thou art the form, of all deformity.

As for thy Vassals, thus begin their evils,
Their entrance strait transforms them into Devils.
Their entertainment will be such, as they
Shall flee to death, but death shall flee away.
The torturous worm that gnaws their Consciences,
Does like Prometheus vultur never cease.
Curses are all hymnes, their parched throats,
Can't Lachrymæ in lamentable notes.
Their Ditty's blasphemy, schrieching their strains,
Howling their tune, whose burthen grief sustains.
With sighs and sobs, gnashing their teeth, thus run,
Their doleful descant, and division.
Well knew our Saviour Judas sad estate,
When he pronounc'd his Birth infortunate.
Alass? these sufferings are unsufferable,
Yet must be born, although we be not able.
Sad is the strength, that is, but lent us to
Sustain the Atlas of a greater woe.
Of Fables fond and foolish Poets tell,
That Hercules went, and return'd from Hell.
Well might he go, but if he e're return'd,
To tell his rearival Ile be burn'd.
He that comes to this place, he must discusse,
His exit with a stouter Cerberus.
Alcides might, and Orpheus mirth must fail,
They cannot 'gainst the Gates of Hell prevail.
No hope of breaking out, the Dungeons deep,
And the vast trench environs it is sleep.
'Tis wall'd to Heaven, and has a dreadful mote,
Nine times surrounds it, that will bear no boat.
Sure such a Gulph 'twixt thee, and me doth flow,
Thou canst not hither, nor we thither go.
Despair, and dye; hope no revocative day,
Since thou art banisht into Scythia.
Ye that drink the Worlds Lethe, forget God,
See here his Scorpions, see his flaming rod.
Ye jeasted with edg'd tools, but though the heel
Of Justice lead is, know her hand is steel.
Heart piercing words, depart ye, from my sight,
Into the bosom of confused night.
Hurry him hence, headlong him down beneath,
To the black valley of eternal death.
Think not thy Curtains are commanded close,
To apt thy eyes to a secure repose.
No, Hells hard servic'd Centinels must keep
Continual Watch, and never, never sleep.
Nor be reliev'd: No Circean Lullabies
Shall be of power to charm their damned eyes.
Think now, prophanest liver, do but think
How thou of this so bitter Cup wilt drink;
What I have writ, read, and consider well,
And tell me then, but what thou thinkst of Hell.
Didst thou ly waking on a bed more soft
Than Down, pluckt from the Ravens quill, how oft
Wouldst thou wisht Morning? lingring for the light,
Though Bed-rid but a poor Cymerian night.
Think then how thou wilt tosse thy restless head,
Where everlasting burning is thy bed.
Think then, I say, of their accurs'd condition,
Whose misery admits no intermission.
This is that bitter drought, whose dire dregs be
The limits of these woes, Eternity.
One thing most strange, and what I much ad Mir'is.
A wise man thinks there no material Fire is.
But who believes it not's worse than the Devil,
And, I had almost said bad as Will Nevill.
Here I break off, should I proceed to tell
What such have lost, that were another Hell.

------ En ultima tanti
Meta furoris adest.