Robert Burton

Robert
Burton
1577
1640

English Clergyman, Writer and Scholar at Oxford University

Author Quotes

Melancholy and despair, though often, do not always concur; there is much difference: melancholy fears without a cause, this upon great occasion; melancholy is caused by fear and grief, but this torment procures them and all extremity of bitterness.

Perigrination charms our senses with such unspeakable and sweet variety that some count him that never traveled--a kind of prisoner, and pity his case: that, from his cradle to his old age, he beholds the same still, still,--still, the same, the same.

The attachments of mirth are but the shadows of that true friendship of which the sincere affections of the heart are the substance.

There are true graces, which, as Homer feigns, are linked and tied hand in hand, because it is by their influence that human hearts are so firmly united to each other.

To The Reader Who Employs His Leisure Ill - Whoever you may be, I caution you against rashly defaming the author of this work, or cavilling in jest against him. Nay, do not silently reproach him in consequence of others' censure, nor employ your wit in foolish disapproval or false accusation. For, should Democritus Junior prove to be what he professes, even a kinsman of his elder namesake, or be ever so little of the same kidney, it is all up with you: he will become both accuser and judge of you in his petulant spleen, will dissipate you in jest, pulverize you with witticisms, and sacrifice you, I can promise you, to the God of Mirth. Again I warn you against cavilling, lest, while you culumniate or disgracefully disparage Decmocritus Junior, who has no animosity against you, you should hear from some judicious friend the very words the people of Abdera heard of old from Hippocrates, when they held their well-deserving and popular fellow-citizen to be a madman: Truly, it is you, Democritus, that are wise, while the people of Abdera are fools and madmen. You have no more sense than the people of Abdera. Having given you this warning in a few words, O reader who employ your liesure ill, farewell.

When he will he shall have nay.

Melancholy can be overcome only by melancholy.

Put his shoulder to the wheel.

The band of conjugal love is adamantine.

There is no such thing as happiness, only lesser shades of melancholy.

To these crocodile tears they will add sobs, fiery sighs, and sorrowful countenance.

When I lie waking all alone, recounting what I have ill done, my thoughts on me then tyrannize, fear and sorrow me surprise, whether I tarry still or go, methinks the time moves very slow, all my griefs to this are jolly, naught so sad as melancholy. 'Tis my sole plague to be alone, I am a beast, a monster grown, I will no light nor company, I find it now my misery. The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, fear, discontent, and sorrows come. All my griefs to this are folly, naught so fierce as melancholy.

Misery assails riches, as lightning does the highest towers; or as a tree that is heavy laden with fruit breaks its own boughs, so do riches destroy the virtue of their possessor.

Rob Peter, and pay Paul.

The Chinese say that we Europeans have one eye, they themselves two, all the world else is blinde.

There is something in a woman beyond all human delight; a magnetic virtue, a charming quality, an occult and powerful motive.

To think well of every other man's condition, and to dislike our own, is one of the misfortunes of human nature. "Pleased with each other's lot, our own we hate."

When they are at Rome, they do there as they see done.

Most part of a lover's life is full of agony, anxiety, fear and grief, complaints, sighs, suspicions, and cares (heigh-ho my heart is woe), full of silence and irksome solitariness.

Scoffs, calumnies, and jests are frequently the causes of melancholy. It is said that ?a blow with a word strikes deeper than a blow with a sword;? and certainly there are many men whose feelings are more galled by a calumny, a bitter jest, a libel, a pasquil, a squib, a satire, or an epigram, than by any misfortune whatsoever.

The commonwealth of Venice in their armory have this inscription: "Happy is that city which in time of peace thinks of war."

They are proud in humility, proud in that they are not proud.

Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases...but as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health, hellish, devilish and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul.

Where God hath a temple, the Devil will have a chapel

Much may be done in those little shreds and patches of time, which every day produces, and which most men throw away, but which nevertheless will make at the end of it no small deduction for the life of man.

Author Picture
First Name
Robert
Last Name
Burton
Birth Date
1577
Death Date
1640
Bio

English Clergyman, Writer and Scholar at Oxford University