The poem
Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round! Parents first season us; then schoolmasters Deliver us to laws;—they send us bound To rules of reason, holy messengers, Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, Bibles laid open, millions of surprises, Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness, The sound of glory ringing in our ears; Without, our shame; within, our consciences; Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears: Yet all these fences and their whole array One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.