Fable I. the Distribution of Gifts

Jove once, 'tis said, was angry grown With all mankind; and we must own With reason too: th' ungrateful race Dar'd even to their maker's face, Unthinking, insolent and vain, Presume of hardships to complain. Say, did not I (thus spoke the god) Create at will that human clod? Endow it with a soul divine, That attribute a spark of mine? Did I not place him on yon ball, That earth, and make him lord of all? Did I not give him full command O'er every creature in the land? O'er all that in the waters swim, O'er all that thro' light ether skim? Nay more: I gave a loving wife, To be the solace of his life; A fair one too. (Jove swears and vows He'd gladly club for such a spouse: For Jove we know would now and then, By way of frolick, act like men) The very being of a state Consists of small, as well as great; From first to last there must be ranks; Man's blest in all, yet gives no thanks: To every one Jove's bounty flows; To these bright honours, wealth to those: And they who dwell in humble cot May boast indeed the happiest lot: Instead of grandeur, pomp, and wealth, I give them mirth, content, and health: Nay some have still a luckier hit, As country squire, and London cit, Great appetites, and little wit. What would ungrateful mortals have? How dare they say, Jove nothing gave? To please mankind's no easy task; Give e'er so much, they've more to ask.