And rarely commendeth to a mother her daughter's budding beauty:
Yet shall he extol the daughter to her father, and be warm about the son before his mother;
Knowing that self-love entereth not, to resist applause with jealousies.
Wisely is he sparing of hyperbole where vehemence of praise would humble,
For many a father liketh ill to be counted second to his son:
And shrewdly the flatterer hath reckoned on a self still lurking in the mother,
When his tongue was slow to speak of graces in the daughter.
But if he descend a generation, to the grandsire his talk is of the grandson,
Because in such high praise he hideth the honours of the son;
And the daughter of a daughter may well exceed, in beauty, love, and learning,