To cherish virtuous hope, but at our need
Eludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,
Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,
Were it not better to be born a beast,
Only to feel what is, and thus to ’scape
The aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breast
With sore anxiety of what shall be—
And all for nought? Since our most wicked act
Is not our sin, and our religious awe
Delusion, if that strong Necessity