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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

He who dares not (reason), is a slave.

What sweet delight a quiet life affords.