Song CXXI. 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.