LXIII
Now go, my darling children, go—
This is no more your station;
Accept for your quaint journey yet
Your father’s osculation!
May be, somewhere they’ll honor you
And offer you receptions;
But somewhere they may criticise—
Be ready for exceptions!
But let your mind not be disturbed
Nor wrinkles in face driven:
All kinds of men live in the world,
But few to love are given.