Till, as I grew, and found myself at large,
Spoilt both by mother’s love and father’s hate
I took to evil company, gave rein
To every passion as it rose within,
Wine, dice, and women—what a precipice
To build the fabric of a life upon!
Which, when my father
Saw tottering to its fall, he strove to train
The tree that he had suffer’d to take root
In vice, and grow up crooked—all too late!