Theirs are dowries not of gold,Their parents' worth, their own pure chastity,True to one, to others cold;They dare not sin, or, if they dare, they die.O, whoe'er has heart and headTo stay our plague of blood, our civic brawls,Would he that his name be read“Father of Rome” on lofty pedestals,Let him chain this lawless will,And be our children's hero! cursed spite!Living worth we envy still,Then seek it with strain'd eyes, when snatch'd from sight.What can sad laments availUnless sharp justice kill the taint of sin?What can laws, that needs must failShorn of the aid of manners form'd within,If the merchant turns not backFrom the fierce heats that round the tropic glow,Turns not from the regions blackWith northern winds, and hard with frozen snow;