Why should'st thou try, O Ptolemy, to pass

Thy narrow-bounded world for aught divine?

Why should thy poor machine presume to claim

A noble maker? Can a narrow space

Call for eternal hands? Will thy mansion

Suit great Jove? or can he from such a seat

Prepare his lightnings for the trembling earth?

Fair are the gods you frame forsooth! nor vain

Would be their fears if giant hands assailed them.

Such little world were well the infant sport

Of Jove in darker times; such toys in truth

His cradle might befit, nor would the work

In after years have e'er been perfected,

When harlot smiles restrained his riper powers.

These are your fancied gods, your paltry dreams;

And worthy them is all you raise around;

The temples that you build are amply large,

Thy heavens are suited to a Jove like thine. […]