Classic Poem

He hopes that you may have a son, he says;
A silly lie, there's naught he wishes less;
This is the fortune-hunter's trick—he prays
For what, if granted, would his soul distress;
Just watch the rascal blench if you profess
That your Cosconia expects an heir:
And let your will suggest that all success
(How he will rave!) attended on his prayer.