It throws a somewhat lurid light
Upon your private life
That you should crave the " father's right"
When you have got a wife.

You tease the sovereign as a boon
To call you " Sire of three",
Go home, my friend, 'tis none too soon,
And cease your urgent plea.

But you are qualified — and more,
For in that distant home
You'll find your wife has borne you four
Whilst you were here in Rome.