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"Virtue is Its Own Reward"

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Virtue its own reward? Alas!

And what a poor one as a rule!

Be Virtuous and Life will pass

Like one long term of Sunday-School.

(No prospect, truly, could one find

More unalluring to the mind.)


You may imagine that it pays

To practise Goodness. Not a bit!

You cease receiving any praise

When people have got used to it;

'Tis generally understood

You find it easy to be good.


The Model Child has got to keep

His fingers and his garments white;

In church he may not go to sleep,

Nor ask to stop up late at night.

In fact he must not ever do

A single thing he wishes to.


He may not paddle in his boots,

Like naughty children, at the Sea;

The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits

Is not, alas! for such as he.

He watches, with pathetic eyes,

His weaker brethren make mud-pies.


He must not answer back, oh no!

However rude grown-ups may be,

But keep politely silent, tho'

He brim with scathing repartee;

For nothing is considered worse

Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.


He must not eat too much at meals,

Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;

However vacuous he feels,

He may not pass his plate for more;

– Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache

For further slabs of Christmas cake.


He is enjoined to choose his food

From what is easy to digest;

A choice which in itself is good,

But never what he likes the best.

(At times how madly he must wish

For just one real unwholesome dish!)


And, when the wretched urchin plays

With other little girls and boys,

He has to show unselfish ways

By giving them his choicest toys;

His ears he lets them freely box,

Or pull his lubricated locks.


His face is always being washed,

His hair perpetually brushed,

And thus his brighter side is squashed,

His human instincts warped and crushed;

Small wonder that his early years

Are filled with "thoughts too deep for tears."


He is commanded not to waste

The fleeting hours of childhood's days

By giving way to any taste

For circuses or matinées;

For him the entertainments planned

Are "Lectures on the Holy Land."


He never reads a story book

By Rider H. or Winston C.,

In vain upon his desk you'd look

For tales by Richard Harding D.;


Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many

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