Classic Poem

How nice a shape that Leg,
As Pencil's art can take;
So Streight the growth, how fine the Man,
Who did that Fabric make?

My God, I know t'was thou
That fashion'd it of Clay;
And at thy pleasure shall it fall,
And moulder all away.

Is he a Man of War,
And Honor in the Field?
Ye Maidens, love your honor more,
And never to him yield.

Does he his Sovereign love,
His Country's good at Heart?
And yet to injure harmless Maids,
How cowardly a part!

He cannot love the King of Kings,
That thus his Law will break;
And will be found a Traitor too,
That does such Rebels make.

Yea, Rebels worse than Vipers are,
These Women are forlorn,
They're worse than Snakes or Adders are,
Then drop a Tear and mourn.

With horror see such walk the Streets,
T' ensnare the heedless youth;
Whose Guests are in the depth of Hell,
We know it for a truth.

Do not your Conscience you reproach,
You fine, but monster Man?
I know it will its office do,
Tho' stifle it all you can.

What will you do when at God's Bar
You are called to appear?
Money will then be of no use,
No Counsel for you there.

Oh! where will you for safety fly?
You'll surely be undone;
Unless you have a Friend at Court,
God saves you thro' his Son.

But know, you must renewed be,
And thus be born again:
God saves us from the love of Sin,
The Scripture here is plain.

Then watch your Heart, and guard your Eyes,
And make a Wife your care;
You may be happy in her love,
And own your Children dear.