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.