To warn thee of the thing, which thou, alas,
For weariness of hope and long misgiving,
Art slow to hear.
Pen.What is man’s hope, good friend?
Is’t not a beggar in the land of doubt,
Seeking as thou shelter and fire and food
From day to day? and, while she finds a little,
She travels on, comforting life’s affections
With scraps and crumbs fall’n from the dish of joy.
’Tis thus hope lives, patient and pleasureless: