It's no in titles or in rank; And centre in the breast, Nae treasures, nor pleasures, FAITH. BURNS. BETTER trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving, Than doubt one heart that if believed Had blessed one's life with true believing. Oh! in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; Better be cheated to the last Ulysses. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon Are melted into air, into thin air; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherits, shall dis solve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind: we are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Tempest, act. iv. sc. 4. |