And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt
Is but a carpet inside out.
"As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.
"No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace
The motley mixture we deride,