Seton

Nay, Christian, it must be, whate’er the event, For nature now, in silent eloquence, Even as a voice sent from the opening heavens, Urges parental duty. What is Fame? ’Tis sound!—a bubble floating in the air; Painted with rainbow colours, by the sun Of dazzling honour, and as false as they; Which men, like grown-up children, seek to catch, Yet find it nothing,—Oh, my son! my son! Time flies; ho! messenger! [Exit SETON.