It's no in titles or in rank; To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, Nae treasures, nor pleasures, FAITH. BURNS. Strive not with pain to scale the height Of some fair garden's petty wall, But climb the open mountain side, Whose summit rises over all. E. S. H. ULYSSES AND ACHILLES. 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. |