Like fickle Seasons, in the varying Year.
A sad it is, but melancholy Truth,
How small, how slippery is the path of Youth:
Many, no doubt, incautious, weak, and blind,
Betraying want of prudence, want of mind,
Impetuously advance, nor look before—
They unlamented sink—to rise no more:
Others again, by observation guided,
Step firmly on, determined, and decided;
One solid Object steadily pursue,