Then pause or e'er thou stampest on thy soul Eternally such misery as thine, And writest on God's conscience-blasting scroll, A wife's dishonour, and a tarnish'd line, To weigh for thee thine everlasting dole... Friend, let thine arm be strong, good sooth there's need, Thou cuttest through a weary depth of woe!

There are two things which make it impossible to believe that this world is the successful work of an all-wise, all-good, and, at the same time, all-powerful Being; firstly, the misery which abounds in it everywhere; and secondly, the obvious imperfection of its highest product, man, who is a burlesque of what he should be.