When Gullion di'd (who knows not Gullion?) / And his drie soule arriu'd at Acheron, / He faire besought the feryman of hell, / That he might drink to dead Pantagruel. / […] Yet still he drinkes, nor can the Botemans cries, / Nor crabbed oares, nor prayers make him rise. / So long he drinkes, till the black Carauell / Stands still fast grauel'd on the mud of hell.