Thou know’st the world, what love of it can do:
Found thou thine efforts on a base more true.
Thy little girl hath chosen well her part,
Thou may’st believe, as one about to start
For the first time upon the stormy sea,
Beholding there great flux and jeopardy,
Returneth to the shore; while those that raise
Their sails, the wind or some blind crag betrays,
And this one dies from hunger, that from cold:
Scarce one escapes the perils manifold.