WILLIAM DRUMMOND

He who dares not reason, is a slave.

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 oppressed.

Books have that strange quality, that being of the frailest and tenderest matter, they outlast brass, iron and marble.

He that will not reason is a bigot; he that cannot reason is a fool; and he that dares not reason is a slave.

I study myself more than any other subject; it is my metaphysic, and my physic.

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.

So that my life be brave, what though not long?

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.

What sweet delight a quiet life affords.

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world; doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal 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.

Iron sharpens iron; scholar, the scholar.

There is a silence, the child of love, which expresses everything, and proclaims more loudly than the tongue is able to do.

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.

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.

He who dares not reason, is a slave.

I study myself more than any other subject; it is my metaphysic, and my physic.

He that will not reason is a bigot; he that cannot reason is a fool; and he that dares not reason is a slave.

Books have that strange quality, that being of the frailest and tenderest matter, they outlast brass, iron and marble.

My thoughts hold mortal strife, I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries, Peace to my soul to bring, Oft calls that prince which here doth monarchize; But he, grim-grinning king, Who caitiffs scorns and doth the blest surprise, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

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 oppressed.

What sweet delight a quiet life affords.

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world; doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love.

So that my life be brave, what though not long?