Let the Capitolian fane,The favour'd goal of yon vociferous crowd,Aye, or let the nearest mainReceive our gold, our jewels rich and proud:Slay we thus the cause of crime,If yet we would repent and choose the good:Ours the task to take in timeThis baleful lust, and crush it in the bud.Ours to mould our weakling sonsTo nobler sentiment and manlier deed:Now the noble's first-born shunsThe perilous chase, nor learns to sit his steed:Set him to the unlawful dice,Or Grecian hoop, how skilfully he plays!While his sire, mature in vice,A friend, a partner, or a guest betrays,Hurrying, for an heir so base,To gather riches. Money, root of ill,Doubt it not, still grows apace:Yet the scant heap has somewhat lacking still.