But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow;
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low.
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son,
Unalter’d, unimprov’d, the manners run; 230
And love’s and friendship’s finely pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o’er the mountain’s breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play 235
Through life’s more cultur’d walks, and charm the way,—