Let me then refrain, and dread:

A curſe hangs over the blaſphemer's head.
If they, who ſuperviſe and ward
The heavens, did ever ſhew regard
To mortal man this Tantalus might boaſt, ⁠95
Of mortal men that he was honoured moſt:
But he not able to digeſt
The glut, the ſurfeit, of immortal joys,
One heinous forfeit all his bliſs deſtroys:
For over him the godhead hung, in air, ⁠100
A ponderous ſtone, a dreadful poiſe of care!
From his head to remove it, with terrour oppreſs'd,
In vain he tries, and ſeeks in vain
One cheerful moment to regain:

A life of woe, beyond relief, ⁠105
His portion' now; ordain'd before
To torments of a three-fold grief,
This fourth was added to compleat his ſtore,
Since, high, preſuming in his ſoul,
He nectar and ambroſia ſtole, ⁠110
To give to men; by which he knew

That, taſting, he immortal grew: