Instead of order, wild deformity. }
Let this, my soul, incline thee to reflect,
The fatal consequence of sad neglect.
Thy mind like this sweet spot thou may'st improve,
And make it worthy of its Maker's love.
Observe thyself with nicest care, thy pain
And present labour will be future gain.
Let no ill weeds arise lest they destroy,
The seeds of virtue which alone yield joy.
Manure thy soul with every lovely grace,