Extending far, behind a triple wall,
A city that one might a kingdom call,
Girt by waters—Phlegethon their dread name—
That whirl echoing rocks, and floods of flame.
Then, if that torrent of fire could be crossed,
What of the adamantine gates? Where host
Of men, nay, Gods of high Heaven, with pow’r
To tear those from their storm-defying tow’r?
And, as if this were not enough to keep
Dis safe, Tisiphone, who needs no sleep,