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.