Conscience is instinct bred in the house,


Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin


By an unnatural breeding in and in.


I say, Turn it out doors,


Into the moors.


I love a life whose plot is simple,


And does not thicken with every pimple,


A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,


That makes the universe no worse than ’t finds it.


I love an earnest soul,


Whose mighty joy and sorrow


Are not drowned in a bowl,


And brought to life to-morrow


That lives one tragedy,


And not seventy;


A conscience worth keeping,


Laughing not weeping;


A conscience wise and steady,


And for ever ready;


Not changing with events,


Dealing in compliments;


A conscience exercised about


Large things, where one may doubt.


I love a soul not all of wood,


Predestinated to be good,


But true to the backbone


Unto itself alone,


And false to none;


Born to its own affairs,


Its own joys and own cares;


By whom the work which God begun


Is finished, and not undone;


Taken up where he left off,


Whether to worship or to scoff;


If not good, why then evil,


If not good god, good devil.


Goodness!—you hypocrite, come out of that,


Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.


I have no patience towards


Such conscientious cowards.


Give me simple laboring folk,


Who love their work,


Whose virtue is a song


To cheer God along.