When Jove with fury hurls the moulded hail,
And earth and sea destructive storms assail,
Or when he bids, from his tempestuous sky,
The winds unchained with wasting horror fly,
The god ne’er heeds what harvests he may spoil,
Nor yet regards each desolated soil:
So, when its blessings bounteous heaven ordains,
It ne’er with sparing hand the good restrains;
Evils in like abundance too it showers;
Well suits profusion with immortal powers!