Verse 1
Ah simple souls, who fondly dream
Of instantaneous holiness!
Tho’ pride and self extinguish’d seem,
While all within is joy and peace,
Ye soon shall own, with shame compell’d,
Th’ original wound was slightly heal’d.

Verse 2
It cannot heal your sloth, to say
“Ye need not suffer first, or grieve,
Ye need not fight so long, or pray,
But now, ye novices, believe,
But now the crown of victory seize,
But now be perfect—if you please!”

Verse 3
It cannot heal your pride, to praise,
And part you from the groveling croud,
To set you up for fools to gaze
At the strange miniatures of God,
Sinners transform’d by fancy’s power
To saints, and perfect in an hour!

Verse 4
Rather a thousand fold increase
Your flatter’d vanity obtains,
While in perfection’s glorious dress
The self-exalting nature reigns,
And all your grace so highly priz’d
Is only Antichrist disguis’d!