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… - William Drummond of Hawthornden

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.

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

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?