Valluvar has already told you what God looks like, what rain does, and what a monk must renounce. Now he turns around and makes the sale. This chapter is the closing argument for virtue itself — not as philosophy, not as piety, but as engineering. What does virtue actually produce? What does its absence actually cost? And how, precisely, should a person practice it? The answers arrive with escalating force: virtue yields both honor and wealth; forgetting it yields the worst ruin; it must be pursued without pause, in every available channel, by mind and mouth and body. Then the chapter executes a stunning pivot. Having built the case for relentless action, Valluvar suddenly announces that none of the external performance matters — only the mind's cleanliness counts, and everything else is theater. From that knife-edge of purity, he names the four poisons that corrupt it, issues an ultimatum about time running out, offers a single image so vivid it needs no scripture to prove its point, and closes by slamming the door: do virtue or wear disgrace. There is no third option.