Classic Poem

If you, my son, should e'er incline
In Hymen's careful bands to join,
Observe the maid who suits your heart,
But ne'er your mind to her impart,
'Till you have view'd her o'er and o'er —
Her life and character explore,
Know if you can her mental store:
And if you find the maid is she,
Who may through life your help-mate be,
Then court her heart, with honour court,
Nor dare to make a nymph thy sport.
With ardour seek — her love obtain —
Then to desert, and give her pain,
Involve in grief, who had been free,
Content, and happy, but for thee;
Who, mov'd by sympathy alone,
To ease your heart, gave you her own;
And, when the conquest you discover,
Basely neglect, or seek another,
The vilest miscreant on the road,
Who haunts the desert and the wood,
Who hazards life for what he gains,
Nor wins an heart with all his pains;
But flies, pursu'd, o'er gate and stile,
Commits no action half so vile.
And should I live — such conduct know
In you, my son — my tears would slow, —
Myself would seek to ease her grief,
And bid thee fly to her relief.