Quote

Forbear, you things That stand upon the pinnacles of state, To boast your slippery height! when you do fall, You dash yourselves in pieces, ne'er to rise: And he that lends you pity, is not wise.

Ben Jonson

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Ben Jonson
Age: 65 †
Born: 1572
Born: June 21
Died: 1637
Died: August 6
Actor
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Benjamin Jonson
State
Slippery
Upon
Boast
Fall
Height
States
Pity
Pinnacles
Things
Rise
Forbear
Pieces
Dash
Stand
Lends
Wise
Pinnacle

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Nothing is more short-lived than pride.
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I know no disease of the soul but ignorance, a pernicious evil, the darkener of man's life, the disturber of his reason, and common confounder of truth.
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It is less dishonor to hear imperfectly than to speak imperfectly. The ears are excused the understanding is not.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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Love that is ignorant and hatred have almost the same ends.
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It strikes! one, two, Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch, Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest Would thou could'st make the time to do so too I'll wind thee up no more.
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The pipe marks the point at which the orangutan ends and man begins.
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A good life is a main argument.
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It is the highest of earthly honors to be descended from the great and good. They alone cry out against a noble ancestry who have none of their own.
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And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot.
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There is no bounty to be showed to such As have real goodness: Bounty is A spice of virtue and what virtuous act Can take effect on them that have no power Of equal habitude to apprehend it?
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It holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, which inwardly is most dear to us.
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Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine.
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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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Who will not judge him worthy to be robbed That sets his doors wide open to a thief, And shows the felon where his treasure lies?
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I have no urns, no dusty monuments No broken images of ancestors, Wanting an ear, or nose no forged tales Of long descents, to boast false honors from.
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Success hath made me wanton.
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