Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?
Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive
God—the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve,
"'T is but decent to profess one's self beneath her:
Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!"
Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes;
Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves,
When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure,
And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.
Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,