From its best hopes, the man from their control. 
To make him humble, and confine his views
Within their bounds, and books which they peruse,
A deputation from these friends select
Might reason with him to some good effect;
Arm’d with authority, and led by love,
They might those follies from his mind remove. 
Deciding thus, and with this kind intent,
A chosen body with its speaker went. 
   “John,” said the Teacher, “John, with great concern. 
We see thy frailty, and thy fate discern —
Satan with toils thy simple soul beset,
And thou art careless slumbering in the net: 
Unmindful art thou of thy early vow;
Who at the morning meeting sees thee now? 
Who at the evening?  ‘Where is brother John?’
We ask;—­are answer’d, ‘To the tavern gone.’ 
Thee on the Sabbath seldom we behold;
Thou canst not sing, thou’rt nursing for a cold: 
This from the churchmen thou hast learn’d, for they
Have colds and fevers on the Sabbath-day;
When in some snug warm room they sit, and pen
Bills from their ledgers—­world-entangled men,
   “See with what pride thou hast enlarged thy shop;
To view thy tempting stores the heedless stop. 
By what strange names dost thou these baubles know,
Which wantons wear, to make a sinful show? 
Hast thou in view these idle volumes placed
To be the pander of a vicious taste? 
What’s here? a book of dances!—­you advance
In goodly knowledge—­John, wilt learn to dance? 
How!  ‘Go,’ it says, and ’to the devil go! 
And shake thyself!’ I tremble—­but ’tis so;
Wretch as thou art, what answer canst thou make? 
Oh! without question, thou wilt go and shake. 
What’s here?  ’The School for Scandal’—­pretty schools! 
Well, and art thou proficient in the rules? 
Art thou a pupil?  Is it thy design
To make our names contemptible as thine? 
‘Old Nick, a novel!’ oh! ’tis mighty well —
A fool has courage when he laughs at hell;
‘Frolic and Fun;’ the Humours of Tim Grin;’
Why, John, thou grow’st facetious in thy sin;
And what?—­’The Archdeacon’s Charge!’—­’tis mighty well —
If Satan publish’d, thou wouldst doubtless sell: 
Jests, novels, dances, and this precious stuff
To crown thy folly—­we have seen enough;
We find thee fitted for each evil work: 
Do print the Koran and become a Turk. 
   “John, thou art lost; success and worldly pride
O’er all thy thoughts and purposes preside,
Have bound thee fast, and drawn thee far aside: 
Yet turn; these sin-traps from thy shop expel,
Repent and pray, and all may yet be well. 
   “And here thy wife, thy Dorothy behold,
How fashion’s wanton robes her form infold! 
Can grace, can goodness with such trappings dwell? 
John, thou hast made thy wife a Jezebel: 
See! on her bosom rests the sign of sin,
The glaring proof of naughty thoughts within: 
What! ’tis a cross:  come hither—­as