William Drummond of Hawthornden Quotes

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

This Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children's breath,
Who chase it every where

What doth it serve to see sun's burning face, And skies enamelled with both the Indies' gold? Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd, And all the glory of that starry place?

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.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My love, to hear and recompense my love.

Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
Are these your influences, Powers above?

For what doth serve all that this world contains, Sith she for whom those once to me were dear, No part of them can have now with me here?

Quien no quiere razonar es un fanático; quien no sabe razonar es un tonto; quien no se atreve a razonar es un esclavo.

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.

Phœbus, arise!
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red.

God never had a church but there, men say,
The Devil a chapel hath raised by some wyles.
I doubted of this saw, till on a day
I westward spied great Edinburgh’s Saint Gyles.

My thoughts hold mortal strife;
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise: — 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.

If two pilgrims, which have wandered some few miles together, have a heart's grief when they are near to part, what must the sorrow be at the parting of two so loving friends and never-loathing lovers as the body and the soul?

Here is the pleasant place,
And nothing wanted is, save She, alas!

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.