And as he read, seem'd highly pleas'd;
Made such reflections every page,
The mother thought above his age:
Delighted read, but scarce was able,
To finish the concluding fable.
"What ails my child?" the mother cries,
"Whose sorrows now have fill'd your eyes?"
"Oh, dear Mamma, can he want friends
Who writes for such exalted ends?
Oh, base, degenerate human kind!
Had I a fortune to my mind,
Should Gay complain; but now, alas!
Through what a world am I to pass;
Where friendship's but an empty name,
And merit's scarcely paid in fame."
Resolv'd to lull his woes to rest.
She told him he should hope the best;
That who instruct the royal race.
Can't fail of some distinguished place.
"Mamma, if you were queen," says he,
"And such a book was writ for me;
I know 'tis so much to your taste,
That Gay would keep his coach at least."
"My child, what you suppose is true,
I see its excellence in you;
Poets whose writing mend the mind,
A noble recompense should find:
But I am barr'd by fortune's frowns.
From the best privilege of crowns;
The glorious godlike power to bless,