Into This Wild Abyss, The Womb Of

Abashed The Devil Stood And Felt How Awful Goodness Is And Saw Virtue In Her Shape How Lovely: And Pined His Loss

Tis Chastity, My Brother, Chastity; She That Has That Is Clad In Complete Steel, And, Like A Quiver'd Nymph With Arrows Keen, May Trace Huge Forests, And Unharbour'd Heaths, Infamous Hills, And Sandy Perilous Wilds; Where, Through The Sacred Rays Of Chastity, No Savage Fierce, Bandite, Or Mountaineer, Will Dare To Soil Her Virgin Purity.

The Debt Immense Of Endless Gratitude, So Burthensome, Still Paying, Still To Owe; Forgetful What From Him I Still Receivd, And Understood Not That A Grateful Mind By Owing Owes Not, But Still Pays, At Once Indebted And Dischargd; What Burden Then?

If All The World Should In A Pet Of Temp'rance, Feed On Pulse, Drink The Clear Stream, And Nothing Wear But Frieze, Th' All-giver Would Be Unthank'd, Would Be Unprais'd.

Truth Is Compared In Scripture To A Streaming Fountain; If Her Waters Flow Not In Perpetual Progression, They Sicken Into A Muddy Pool Of Conformity And Tradition.