When brutes run wild in crime and lechery
That soft adjustments will not satisfy.
Men seldom fight the things they do not hate;
A vice grows strong on mildly tempered scorn;
Rank thrives the weed the gardeners tolerate;
You cannot stroke the snake that lies in wait,
And change his nature with to-morrow's morn.
If roses are to bloom, the weeds must go;
Vice be dethroned if virtue is to reign;
Honor and shame together cannot grow,