Air—in the Cestus

Fine sport, indeed, for god and godlin, To see great Jove become Moll Codlin; And threat his wife with fist and horsewhip, Because she loves a little gossip, Yet he, forsooth, can trot and amble, And after scores of misses ramble; Leave, gods, at Hercules your grinning, The master of the world's a spinning. Though while such worthy work is doing, Slap goes the universe to ruin; The trumpet sounds wars rude and civil, Convulse the earth, while to the devil They go their own way, and no wonder, His light'ning's out—asleep his thunder.