This being, by a model bred
  In Jove’s eternal sable head,
  Contrived a shape, empower’d to breathe,
  And be the worldling here beneath. 10

   The Man rose staring, like a stake,
  Wondering to see himself awake! 
  Then look’d so wise, before he knew
  The business he was made to do,
  That, pleased to see with what a grace
  He gravely show’d his forward face,
  Jove talk’d of breeding him on high,
  An under-something of the sky.

   But e’er he gave the mighty nod,
  Which ever binds a poet’s god, 20
  (For which his curls ambrosial shake,
  And mother Earth’s obliged to quake:)
  He saw old mother Earth arise,
  She stood confess’d before his eyes;
  But not with what we read she wore,
  A castle for a crown, before;
  Nor with long streets and longer roads
  Dangling behind her, like commodes: 
  As yet with wreaths alone she dress’d,
  And trail’d a landscape-painted vest. 30
  Then thrice she raised, (as Ovid said)
  And thrice she bow’d her weighty head.

   Her honours made, Great Jove, she cried,
  This thing was fashion’d from my side;
  His hands, his heart, his head are mine;
  Then what hast thou to call him thine?

   Nay, rather ask, the monarch said,
  What boots his hand, his heart, his head? 
  Were what I gave removed away,
  Thy parts an idle shape of clay. 40

   Halves, more than halves! cried honest Care;
  Your pleas would make your titles fair,
  You claim the body, you the soul,
  But I who join’d them, claim the whole.

   Thus with the gods debate began,
  On such a trivial cause as Man. 
  And can celestial tempers rage? 
  (Quoth Virgil in a later age.)

   As thus they wrangled, Time came by;
  (There’s none that paint him such as I, 50
  For what the fabling ancients sung
  Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.)
  As yet his winters had not shed
  Their silver honours on his head;
  He just had got his pinions free
  From his old sire Eternity. 
  A serpent girdled round he wore,
  The tail within the mouth before;
  By which our almanacs are clear
  That learned Egypt meant the year. 60
  A staff he carried, where on high
  A glass was fix’d to measure by,
  As amber boxes made a show
  For heads of canes an age ago. 
  His vest, for day and night, was pied,
  A bending sickle arm’d his side,
  And Spring’s new months his train adorn;
  The other Seasons were unborn.

   Known by the gods, as near he draws,
  They make him umpire of the cause. 70
  O’er a low trunk his arm he laid,
  (Where since his Hours a dial made;)
  Then, leaning, heard the nice debate,
  And thus pronounced the words of Fate: