Classic Poem

Thou own'dst no Crimes that shun'd the Light,
Whose Horror might thy Blood affright,
And force it to its known Retreat.
While the pale Cheeks do Penance in their White,
And tell that Blushes are too weak to expiate:
Thy Faults might all be on thy Forehead wore
And the whole World thy Confessor.
Conscience within still kept Assize,
To punish and deter Impieties:
That inbred Judg, such strict Inspection bore,
So travers'd all thy Actions ore;
Th' Eternal Judge could scarce do more:
Those little Escapades of Vice,
Which pass the Cognizance of most
I'th' Crowd of following Sins forgot and lost,
Could ne're its Sentence or Arraignment miss:
Thou didst prevent the young desires of ill,
And them in their first Motions kill:
The very thoughts in others unconfin'd
And lawless as the Wind,
Thou couldst to Rule and Order bind.
They durst not any stamp, but that of Vertue bear,
And free from stain as thy most publick Actions were.
Let wild Debauches hug their darling Vice
And court no other Paradise,
Till want of Power
Bids 'em discard the stale Amour,
And when disabled strength shall force
A short Divorce,
Miscall that weak forbearance Abstinence,
Which wise Morality and better Sence
Stiles but at best a sneaking Impotence.
Thine far a Nobler Pitch did fly
'Twas all free choice, nought of Necessity.
Thou didst that puny Soul disdain
Whose half-strain Vertue only can restrain;
Nor wouldst that empty Being own
Which springs from Negatives alone,
But truly thoughtst it always Vertues Skeleton.