The Parent

A Fond Father's bliss is to number his race,
And exult on the bloom that just buds on their face;
With their prattle he'll daily himself entertain,
And read in their smiles their lov'd mother again.
Men of pleasure be mute, this is Life's lovely view;
When we look on our young ones our youth we renew.

Thus living we love, and thus loving enjoy;
No Deceit here distracts, no Debauches destroy;
From the May-morn of Youth unto Winter's white age,
Hand in hand, with contentment, we sing thro' Life's stage;
When Death bids us stop we end easy our Song,
And give the Gods thanks that we've liv'd well so long.