Pick fruit from off its firm connected limb,

That you may be sure of its purity.

The fallen apple is consumed by him,

Neglectful of his meal's salubrity.

Let not the grapes sit lone, but supervise,

Succumb else they will to the wild's disease.

Let them ferment under your watchful eyes,

So wine from them when drunk won't harm, but please.

The growing girl is scarcely too depraved,

Ferment her soon; her virtue then won't go.

Old maids however can't from blight be saved,

Iniquity like plagues in them will grow.

The girl you take should be under sixteen,

The rotting woman never will be clean!