The ATHEIST and the ACORN

Methinks this World is oddly made, And ev'ry thing's amiss, A dull presuming Atheist said, As stretch'd he lay beneath a Shade; And instanced in this:

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, A Pumpkin, large and round, Is held but by a little String, Which upwards cannot make it spring, Or bear it from the Ground.

Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small, So disproportion'd, grows; That, who with Sence surveys this All, This universal Casual Ball, Its ill Contrivance knows.

My better Judgment wou'd have hung That Weight upon a Tree, And left this Mast, thus slightly strung, 'Mongst things which on the Surface sprung, And small and feeble be.

No more the Caviller cou'd say, Nor farther Faults descry; For, as he upwards gazing lay, An Acorn, loosen'd from the Stay, Fell down upon his Eye.

Th' offended Part with Tears ran o'er, As punish'd for the Sin: Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore, Thy Whimseys must have work'd no more, Nor Scull had kept them in.