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sins of Youth are hardly sins, So frank they are and free. 'T is but when Middle-age begins We need morality.

Ah, pause and weigh this bitter truth: That Middle-age, grown cold, No comprehension has of Youth, No pity for the Old.

Youth, with his half-divine mistakes, She never can forgive, So much she hates his charm which makes Worth while the life we live.

She scorns Old Age, whose tolerance And calm, well-balanced mind (Knowing how crime is born of chance) Can pardon all mankind.

Yet she, alas! has all the power Of strength and place and gold, Man's every act, through every hour, Is by her laws controlled.

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