TO JUPITER
Jove, much I marvel at the way
In which this world thou'rt pleased to sway;
No difference—none, for aught I see—
'Twix knave and honest man with thee.
Nay, the truth must be confessed,
Full oft, I fear, Vice fares the best,
Of gold, and land, and title brags,
And quaffs his wine, and drives his nags,
Whilst toil-torn Virtue dies in rags.
ARE THERE GODS?
Yes! there are gods; but they no thought bestow
On human deeds—mortal bliss or woe—
Else would such ills our wretched race assail?
Would the Good suffer?—would the Bad prevail?
