Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling cooped we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help-for it As impotently moves as you or I

The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.

For in and out, above, about, below, 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

Oh! My beloved! fill the cup, that clears to-day of past regrets and future fears.

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.

To be free of belief and unbelief is my religion.