The chariest maid is prodigal enough, If she unmask her beauty to the moon: Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclosed, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent.
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whiles, like a puffd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede.1