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Success produces confidence confidence relaxes industry, and negligence ruins the reputation which accuracy had raised.

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
Industry
Accuracy
Success
Produces
Relax
Ruins
Reputation
Raised
Confidence
Relaxes
Produce
Negligence

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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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Nor shall our cups make any guilty men But at our parting, we will be, as when We innocently met.
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Many might go to heaven with half the labour they go to hell, if they would venture their industry the right way.
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Silence in woman is like speech in man.
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O, for an engine, to keep back all clocks, or make the sun forget his motion!
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A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his government is groping.
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Passions are spiritual rebels and raise sedition against the understanding.
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Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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Woman, the more careful she is about her face, the more careless about her house.
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Good men but see death, the wicked taste it.
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To men pressed by their wants all change is ever welcome.
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Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.
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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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All discourses but my own afflict me they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome
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There is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear.
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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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Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace Robes loosely flowing, hair as free Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
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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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I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul lest it be thought the breath Of discontent or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.
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