Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, A dear loved lad, convenience snug, 45 Then gently scan your brother man, One point must still be greatly dark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone He knows each chord, its various tone, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly can compute, But know not what's resisted. TAM O' SHANTER A TALE 50 55 60 |