It's no in titles or in rank; If happiness hae not her seat 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 be lieved 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 |