Of lowliness the beauty.
’Tis true your bony backs are bare,
Your lips too dry for spittle,
Your eyes as dead as whitings’ are,
Your bellies growl for vict’al;
But, dearest children, oh! believe,
Believe not treach’rous senses!
’Tis they your infant hearts deceive,
And lead into offences.
When frost assails your joints by day,