On the fond father with a proud distress;
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On all around he looks with care and love,
Grieved to behold, but happy to approve.
Then from his care, his love, his grief he steals,
And by himself an author's pleasure feels;
Each line detains him, he omits not one,
And all the sorrows of his state are gone.—
Alas! ev'n then, in that delicious hour,
He feels his fortune, and laments its power.