Classic Poem

The Father lying in Bed hugging in his left arm a pot of Mony & laying severall pieces out of it before him. the son sitts at his feet in the habit of a souldier taking with his right hand some pieces that drop. A three footstool stands near him on which three other pots: this written.


The Man who livd with avaritious care
Who starvd the growing virtues of his heir
Who bound to slav'ry by the vice he chose
Coud envy to himself his own respose
Woud have his latest image here exprest
Thus lolling on ye Genial bed of rest
That since with death his long vexations cease
His Stone might speak him with an air of peace
Beneath his feet the son a Souldier leans
Compelld by want to warr in forreign plains
There fell the Youth by deaths unerring dart
& with fresh sorrows broke ye misers heart
Here both seem pleasd but what avails ye sight
No Picturd kindness gives ye dead delight
The Father Never thus supplyd the son
But thus to bless them both he shoud have don