"O Vanity of age! untoward,
Ever spleeny, ever froward!
Why those bolts, and massy chains,
Squint suspicious, jealous pains?
Why, thy toilsome journey o'er,
Lay'st thou in an useless store?
Hope along with Time is flown,
Nor can'st thou reap the field thou'st sown.
Hast thou a son? — In time be wise.
He views thy toil with other eyes. —
Needs must thy kind, paternal care,
Lock'd in thy chests, be buried there;
Whence then shall flow thy friendly ease,
That social converse, homefelt peace,
Familiar duty without dread,
Instruction from example bred,
Which youthful minds with freedom mend.
And with the Father mix the Friend?
Uncircumscrib'd by prudent rules,
Or precepts of expensive schools;
Abus'd at home, abroad despis'd,
Unbred, unletter'd, unadvis'd;
The headstrong course of youth began,
What comfort from this darling son?"