Weep ye not, ye children dear,
That as yet ye are unborn:
For each sorrow and each tear
Makes the father's heart to mourn.

​Patient be a short time to it,
⁠Unproduced, and known to none;
If your father cannot do it,
⁠By your mother 'twill be done.

He who with life makes sport,
⁠Can prosper never;
Who rules himself in nought,
⁠Is a slave ever.