William Drummond, fully Sir William Drummond of Hawthornden
Here is the pleasant place, and nothing wanted is, save she, alas!
Of this fair volume which we world do name if we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, of him who it corrects, and did it frame, we clear might read the art and wisdom rare.
I study myself more than any other subject; it is my metaphysic, and my physic.
Property has its duties as well as its rights.
In mind's pure glass when I myself behold, and vively see how my best days are spent, what clouds of care above my head are roll'd, what coming harms which I cannot prevent: my begun course i, wearied, do repent, and would embrace what reason oft hath told; but scarce thus think i, when love hath controll'd all the best reasons reason could invent. Though sure I know my labour's end is grief, the more I strive that I the more shall pine, that only death can be my last relief: yet when I think upon that face divine, like one with arrow shot in laughter's place, Malgré my heart, I joy in my disgrace.
Put a bridle on thy tongue; set a guard before thy lips, lest the words of thine own mouth destroy thy peace... On much speaking cometh repentance, but in silence is safety.
Iron sharpens iron; scholar, the scholar.
Sleep, silence's child, sweet father of soft rest, prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings indifferent host to shepherds and kings; sole comforter to minds with grief opprest
It is a well-known fact that most artists produce their best work early in their career. They may refine what they do but you usually get the measure of what they are about on their first outing.
So that my life be brave, what though not long?
Lamp of heaven's crystal hall that brings the hours, Eye-dazzler, who makes the ugly night At thine approach fly to her slumb'ry bow'rs, And fills the world with wonder and delight; Life of all lives, death-giver by thy flight To southern pole from these six signs of ours, Goldsmith of all the stars, with silver bright Who moon enamels, Apelles of the flow'rs; Ah! from those watery plains thy golden head Raise up, and bring the so long lingering morn; A grave, nay, hell, I find become this bed, This bed so grievously where I am torn; But, woe is me! though thou now brought the day, Day shall but serve more sorrow to display.
Study what thou art whereof thou art a part what thou knowest of this art this is really what thou art. All that is without thee also is within.
Let Zephyr only breathe and with her tresses play.
The last and greatest herald of heaven's king, girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, among that savage brood the woods forth bring, which he than man more harmless found and mild.
All that the hand of man can uprear, is either overturned by the hand of man, or at length by standing and continuing consumed: as if there were a secret opposition in Fate (the unevitable decree of the Eternal) to control our industry, and countercheck all our devices and proposing. Possessions are not enduring, children lose their names. . . .
Make an eternal spring; give life to this dark world which lieth dead. Spread forth thy golden hair in larger locks than thou wast wont before, and emperor-like decore with diadem of pearl thy temples fair.
There is a silence, the child of love, which expresses everything, and proclaims more loudly than the tongue is able to do.
All war will end when women cease to find men in uniforms attractive - discuss.
Mine eyes, dissolve your globes in briny streams, and with a cloud of sorrow dim your sight; the sun's bright sun is set, of late whose beams gave lustre to your day, day to your night. My voice, now deafen earth with anathemes, roar forth a challenge in the world's despite, tell that disguised grief is her delight, that life a slumber is of fearful dreams. And, woful mind, abhor to think of joy; my senses all now comfortless you hide, accept no object but of black annoy, tears, plaints, sighs, mourning weeds, graves gaping wide. I have nought left to wish, my hopes are dead, and all with her beneath a marble laid.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove my love, to hear and recompense my love.
As we had no part of our will on our entrance into this life, we should not presume to any on our leaving it, but soberly learn to will which he wills.
My life lies in those eyes which have me slain.
This life, which seems so fair, is like a bubble blown up in the air by sporting children's breath, who chase it everywhere and strive who can most motion it bequeath. And though it sometimes seem of its own might like to an eye of gold to be fixed there, and firm to hover in that empty height, that only is because it is so light. But in that pomp it doth not long appear; for when 'tis most admired, in a thought, because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
Bright portals of the sky, emboss'd with sparkling stars, doors of eternity, with diamantine bars, your arras rich uphold, loose all your bolts and springs, ope wide your leaves of gold, that in your roofs may come the king of kings. O well-spring of this all! Thy father's image vive; word, that from nought did call what is, doth reason, live; the soul's eternal food, earth's joy, delight of heaven; all truth, love, beauty, good: to thee, to thee be praises ever given! O glory of the heaven! O sole delight of earth! To thee all power be given, god's uncreated birth! Of mankind lover true, indearer of his wrong, who doth the world renew, still be thou our salvation and our song!
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow with thy green mother in some shady grove, when immelodious winds but made thee move, and birds their ramage did on thee bestow.