I cannot lose the thought yet of this le...

I cannot lose the thought yet of this letter,

Sent to my son; nor leave t' admire the change

Of manners, and the breeding of our youth

Within the kingdom, since myself was one—-

When I was young, he lived not in the stews

Durst have conceived a scorn, and utter'd it,

On a gray head; age was authority

Against a buffoon, and a man had then

A certain reverence paid unto his years,

That had none due unto his life: so much

The sanctity of some prevail'd for others.

But now we all are fallen; youth, from their fear,

And age, from that which bred it, good example.

Nay, would ourselves were not the first, even parents,

That did destroy the hopes in our own children;

Or they not learn'd our vices in their cradles,

And suck'd in our ill customs with their milk;

Ere all their teeth be born, or they can speak,

We make their palates cunning; the first words

We form their tongues with, are licentious jests:

Can it call whore? cry bastard? O, then, kiss it!

A witty child! can't swear? the father's darling!

Give it two plums. Nay, rather than't shall learn

No bawdy song, the mother herself will teach it!—-

But this is in the infancy, the days

Of the long coat; when it puts on the breeches,

It will put off all this: Ay, it is like,

When it is gone into the bone already!

No, no; this dye goes deeper than the coat,

Or shirt, or skin; it stains into the liver,

And heart, in some; and, rather than it should not,

Note what we fathers do! look how we live!

What mistresses we keep! at what expense,

In our sons' eyes! where they may handle our gifts,

Hear our lascivious courtships, see our dalliance,

Taste of the same provoking meats with us,

To ruin of our states! Nay, when our own

Portion is fled, to prey on the remainder,

We call them into fellowship of vice;

Bait 'em with the young chamber-maid, to seal,

And teach 'em all bad ways to buy affliction.

This is one path: but there are millions more,

In which we spoil our own, with leading them.

Well, I thank heaven, I never yet was he

That travell'd with my son, before sixteen,

To shew him the Venetian courtezans;

Nor read the grammar of cheating I had made,

To my sharp boy, at twelve; repeating still

The rule, Get money; still, get money, boy;

No matter by what means; money will do

More, boy, than my lord's letter. Neither have I

Drest snails or mushrooms curiously before him,

Perfumed my sauces, and taught him how to make them;

Preceding still, with my gray gluttony,

At all the ord'naries, and only fear'd

His palate should degenerate, not his manners.

These are the trade of fathers now; however,

My son, I hope, hath met within my threshold

None of these household precedents, which are strong,

And swift, to rape youth to their precipice.

But let the house at home be ne'er so clean

Swept, or kept sweet from filth, nay dust and cobwebs,

If he will live abroad with his companions,

In dung and leystals, it is worth a fear;

Nor is the danger of conversing less

Than all that I have mention'd of example.

Ben Jonson, Every Man in His Humour. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5333/5333-h/5333-h.htm#link2H40004