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,