Away with your stories of Hades,
Which the Flamen has forged to affright us-
We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies,
Your Fates-and your sullen Cocytus.

Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir,
Could we credit your tales of his portals-
In shutting his ears on his wife, sir,
And opening his eyes upon mortals.

Oh, blest be the bright Epicurus!
Who taught us to laugh at such fables;
On Hades they wanted to moor us,
And his hand cut the terrible cables.

If, then, there's a Jove or a Juno,
They vex not their heads about us, man;
Besides, if they did, I and you know
'Tis the life of a god to live thus, man!

What! think you the gods place their bliss-eh?-
In playing the spy on a sinner?
In counting the girls that we kiss, eh?
Or the cups that we empty at dinner?

Content with the soft lips that love us,
This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys,
We care not for gods up above us-
We know there's no god for this earth, boys!