See to your book, young lady; let it be
An index to your life — each page be pure,
By vanity uncolored, and by vice
Unspotted. Cheerful be each modest leaf,
Not rude; and pious be each written page,
Without hypocrisy, be it devout;

Without moroseness, be it serious;
If sportive, innocent: and if a tear
Blot its white margin, let it drop for those
Whose wickedness needs pity more than hate.
Hate no one — hate their vices, not themselves.
Spare many leaves for charity — that flower
That better than the rose's first white bud
Becomes a woman's bosom. There we seek
And there we find it first. Such be your book,
And such, young lady, always may you be.