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Nature not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.
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And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man.
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Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose; I cheer a dead man's sweetheart, Never ask me whose.
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O Queen of air and darkness, I think 'tis truth you say, And I shall die to-morrow; But you will die to-day.
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Who made the world I cannot tell 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.
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