Canst thou draw out the Crocodile with a fish-hook? Or, with a cord, canst thou fasten down his tongue?

Who hath forestalled me, that I may repay him? Under all the heavens, mine it is!

His sneezings, flash forth light, and, his eyes, are like the eyelashes of the dawn;

Wilt thou put a rush-cord on his nose? or, with a thorn, wilt thou pierce his jaw?

A pride, are his arched sides, closed up, with a firm seal;

His breath, setteth coals ablaze, and, a flame, out of his mouth, proceedeth;

Every thing lofty, he beholdeth, he, is king over all ravenous beasts.

His heart, is hardened like a stone, yea hardened, like the nether millstone;

At his rising up, mighty men are afraid, by reason of terror, they are beside themselves:

Wilt thou fill, with darts, his skin? or, with fish-spears, his head?

As for him that assaileth him, the sword availeth not, spear, dart, or coat of mail:

None so bold, that he will rouse him! Who then is he that, before me, can stand?

Out of his nostrils, proceedeth smoke, like a blown pot and rushes;

The dewlaps of his flesh, cleave together, hardened upon him, they cannot be moved;

I will not pass by in silence his parts, or the matter of strength, or the grace of his armour.

Out of his mouth, torches dart forth, sparks of fire, escape;

Shall the companions bargain over him? or will they part him among the traders?

One to another, they join, and, air, cannot enter between them;

Lo! any hope of him, hath been found deceptive, Even at the sight of him, shall not one be overwhelmed?

The doors of his face, who hath opened? The circles of his teeth, are a terror!

Will he solemnise a covenant with thee? Wilt thou take him for a life-long servant?

In his neck, lodgeth strength, and, before him, danceth dismay;

Each to its fellow, they cleave, they grasp each other, and cannot be parted;

Wilt thou sport with him, as with a little bird? Or wilt thou bind him, for thy maidens?

Who hath removed his outer garment, through his double row of teeth, who would enter?

Will he multiply unto thee supplications, or will he speak unto thee softly?

Lay thou upon him thy hand, remember the battle - no more!

There is not - upon the dust - his like, that hath been made to be without fear;

The arrow, will not make him flee, Into chaff, are sling-stones changed by him:

His underparts, are points of potsherd, a pointed threshing roller spreadeth out upon the slime:

He causeth to boil, as a cauldron, the raging deep, the sea, he maketh like a brewing vessel:

As a straw, is a club accounted, and he laugheth at the whir of the javelin;

After him, he lighteth up a path, one might think the resounding deep to be hoary!

He counteth iron as broken straw, and bronze as rotten wood: