Quote

Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!

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
War
Stills
Still
May
Syllables
Reason
Jars
Never
Resting
Time
Rhyme
Poetry

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Heaven prepares good men with crosses but no ill can happen to a good man.
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There is no doctrine will do good where nature is wanting.
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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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If you succeed not, cast not away the quills yet, nor scratch the wainscot, beat not the poor desk, but bring all to the forge and file again turn it new.
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Hell itself must yield to industry.
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I perceive affection makes a fool Of any man too much the father.
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The covetous man never has money. The prodigal will have none shortly.
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The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.
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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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Nothing is more short-lived than pride.
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Force works on servile natures, not the free.
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He threatens many that hath injured one.
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What excellent fools religion makes of men.
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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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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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Doing, a filthy pleasure is, and short And done, we straight repent us of the sport: Let us not rush blindly on unto it, Like lustful beasts, that only know to do it: For lust will languish, and that heat decay, But thus, thus, keeping endless Holy-.
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Where it concerns himself, Who's angry at a slander, makes it true.
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The poet is the nearest borderer upon the orator.
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A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his government is groping.
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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.
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