Classic Poem

When now the third revolving Moon appears,
With sharpen'd Horns, above th'Horizon's Brink;
Without Lucina 's Aid, expect thy Hopes
Are amply crown'd; short Pangs produce to Light
The smoking Litter, crawling, helpless, blind,
Nature their Guide, they seek the pouting Teat
That plenteous streams. Soon as the tender Dam
Has form'd them with her Tongue, with Pleasure view
The Marks of their renown'd Progenitors,
Sure Pledge of Triumphs yet to come. All these
Select with Joy; but to the merc'less Flood
Expose the dwindling Refuse, nor o'erload
Th'indulgent Mother.