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.

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