Classic Poem

Our blood will bear no lesson. All men know
That Job was patient—that adulterous Sin,
Writes Hell upon our foreheads—that thieves' necks
Are forfeit to the grave and frowning Law
Yet who is chaste, unless his veins be cold?
Who calm, if tempted? Who that wants, is honest?
Who lives, from mitred Pope to ragged monk,
That's virtuous all for virtue? Tush, not one.
The mild and passionate are the same in this.
Sometimes a lure more potent bids man swerve
From the first sin, and turn to darker thoughts:
Sometimes he doth delay the accomplishment,—
But that's for weightier pleasure; or he's driven
Back, by pale fear or cunning policy;
But ne'er bribed by poor Virtue.