A club seems to him but a piece of straw;1 he laughs2 at the rattling of the lance.
His undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.331
He makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron4 and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment.532
Behind him he leaves a glistening wake; one would think the deep had white hair.
Nothing on earth is his equal6-- a creature without fear.
He looks down on all that are haughty;7 he is king over all that are proud.8"