Page:Poetical pieces on various subjects.pdf/6



Whate'er is ill beneath the Sun,

Man ought with care the same to shun;

Our souls are of infinite price;

Yet lost they are if slaves to vice

To let our passions o'er us sway,

Would make us wretched in our day;

The bitter sweets of vice's cup,

Would swallow every comfort up.

Vice thus proclaims both wide and far,

Come taste my pleasures, here they are;

But when her wiles do most invite,

We most should dread the Serpent's bite

For Serpent like, Sin hath a sting,

Which does distress and trouble bring;

The venom that it does impart,

Dries up the vitals of the heart.