And following dreams we never knew,
Old man, what dream has Fate assigned,
To trouble you.
Such virtue as commands the law,
A virtue, to the vulgar hordes,
Suffices not you needs must draw,
A righteous sword.
And flagrant in so doing smite,
The priests of Bacchus at their fane,
Lest any worshiper invite,
The god again.
Thence comes public strife and naked crime,
And deadlier than the cup you shun,
A people schooled to mock in time,
All laws not one.
Cease then to fashion state made sin,
Nor give your children cause to doubt,
That virtue springs from iron within,
Not lead without.
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