"And Livyatan! Can you catch him with a fishhook or hold his tongue down with a rope?
Can you put a ring in his nose or pierce his jaw with a barb?
Will he entreat you at length? Will he speak with you softly?
Will he agree with you to be your slave forever?
Will you play with him as you would with a bird or keep him on a string to amuse your little girls?
Will a group of fishermen turn him into a banquet? Will they divide him among the merchants?
Can you fill his skin with darts or his head with fish-spears?
If you lay your hand on him, you won't forget the fight, and you'll never do it again!
"Look, any hope [of capturing him] is futile -one would fall prostrate at the very sight of him.
No one is fierce enough to rouse him, so who can stand up to me?
Who has given me anything and made me pay it back? Everything belongs to me under all of heaven.
"I have more to say about his limbs, his strong talk, and his matchless strength.
Who can strip off his [scaly] garment? Who can enter his jaws?
Who can pry open the doors of his face, so close to his terrible teeth?
"His pride is his rows of scales, tightly sealed together -
one is so close to the next that no air can come between them;
they are stuck one to another, interlocked and impervious.
"When he sneezes, light flashes out; his eyes are like the shimmer of dawn.
From his mouth go fiery torches, and sparks come flying out.
His nostrils belch steam like a caldron boiling on the fire.
His breath sets coals ablaze; flames pour from his mouth.
"Strength resides in his neck, and dismay dances ahead of him [as he goes].
The layers of his flesh stick together; they are firm on him, immovable.
His heart is as hard as a stone, yes, hard as a lower millstone.
When he rears himself up, the gods are afraid, beside themselves in despair.
"If a sword touches him, it won't stick; neither will a spear, or a dart, or a lance.
He regards iron as straw and bronze as rotten wood.
An arrow can't make him flee; for him, slingstones are so much chaff.
Clubs count as hay, and he laughs at a quivering javelin.
His belly is as sharp as fragments of pottery, so he moves across the mud like a threshing-sledge.
"He makes the depths seethe like a pot, he makes the sea [boil] like a perfume kettle.
He leaves a shining wake behind him, making the deep seem to have white hair.
"On earth there is nothing like him, a creature without fear.
He looks straight at all high things. He is king over all proud beasts."