An intire _Orchard_ of one Tree.
So least our _Paradise_ Perfection want,
We may inoculate and plant.
What's Conscience, but a Beldams Midnight Theam;
Or Nodding Nurses idle Dream?
So feign'd as are the _Goblins_, _Elves_ and _Fairies_,
To watch their _Orchard's_ and their _Daries_.
For who can tell when first her Reign begun?
I'th' State of Innocence was none:
And since large Conscience (as the Proverb shows)
In the same sense as bad one goes;
The Less, the Better then; whence this will fall,
He's perfect that hath none at all.
Suppose it be a Vertue rich and pure;
'Tis not for _Spring_ or _Summer_ sure;
Nor yet for _Autumn_; Love must have his Prime,
His Warmer Hearts, and Harvest time.
Till we have flourish'd, grown, & reap'd our Wishes.
What Conscience dares oppose our Kisses?
But when Time's colder hand leades us near home
Then let that _Winter-Vertue_ come:
Frost is till then Prodigious; We may do
What Youth, and Pleasure Prompts us to.

When the Bawd had made an end of Repeating her Verses, the Goldsmith's Lady
told her they were very Ingenious and Diverting Lines, and that she had
oblig'd her extreamly by repeating them. And then pray'd her to go on with
her Discourse which she lik'd very well. Upon which the Bawd thus
proceeded.