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.Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me.FiIl'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,Thus in wildering race I see?What cave shall hearken to my melodies,