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Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.

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
Indeed
Luck
Names

More quotes by Ben Jonson

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No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.
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We are persons of quality, I assure you, and women of fashion, and come to see and to be seen.
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Many punishments sometimes, and in some cases, as much discredit a prince as many funerals a physician.
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I perceive affection makes a fool Of any man too much the father.
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Well, I will scourge those apes, And to these courteous eyes oppose a mirror, As large as is the stage whereon we act Where they shall see the time's deformity Anatomised in every nerve, and sinew, With constant courage, and contempt of fear.
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In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
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Spread yourself upon his bosom publicly, whose heart you would eat in private.
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Court a mistress, she denies you let her alone, she will court you.
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All discourses but my own afflict me they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome
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To speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.
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The pipe marks the point at which the orangutan ends and man begins.
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The way to rise is to obey and please.
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Good men but see death, the wicked taste it.
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Great honours are great burdens, but on whom They are cast with envy, he doth bear two loads.
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Rich apparel has strange virtues it makes him that hath it without means esteemed for an excellent wit he that enjoys it with means puts the world in remembrance of his means.
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The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.
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Good men are the stars, the planets of the ages wherein they live, and illustrate the times.
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The day For whose returns, and many, all these pray And so do I.
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Tis the common disease of all your musicians that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin or end.
Ben Jonson
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Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.
Ben Jonson