Classic Poem

Had Heaven compos'd thy mortal Frame,
Free from Contagion as thy Soul or Fame:
Could Vertue been but Proof against Death's Arms,
Th'adst stood unvanquisht by these Harms,
Safe in a Circle made by thy own Charms.
Fond Pleasure, whose soft Magick oft beguiles
Raw unexperienc'd Souls,
And with smooth Flattery cajoles,
Could ne'er ensnare thee with her Wiles,
Or make thee Captive to her soothing Smiles.
In vain that Pimp of Vice assay'd to please,
In hope to draw thee to its rude Embrace.
Thy Prudence still that Syren past
Without being pinion'd to the Mast:
All its Attempts were ineffectual found;
Heaven fenc'd thy heart with its own Mound,
And forc'd the Tempter still from that forbidden Ground.