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Woman, the more careful she is about her face, the more careless about her house.

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
Careless
Careful
Face
Faces
Woman
House
Home

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What excellent fools religion makes of men.
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I have discovered that a famed familiarity in great ones is a note of certain usurpation on the less for great and popular men feign themselves to be servants to others to make those slaves to them.
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The world knows only two, that's Rome and I.
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Calumnies are answered best with silence.
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Out of clothes out of countenance, out of countenance out of wit.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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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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Now we are all fallen, youth from their fear, And age from that which bred it, good example.
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Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.
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Tis not the wholesome sharp mortality, Or modest anger of a satiric spirit, That hurts or wounds the body of a state, But the sinister application Of the malicious, ignorant, and base Interpreter who will distort and strain The general scope and purpose of an author To his particular and private spleen.
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The pipe marks the point at which the orangutan ends and man begins.
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In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
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I do honor the very flea of his dog.
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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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Nothing is more short-lived than pride.
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Sweet Swan of Avon! What a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear.
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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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Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare , rise I will not lodge thee by Chaucer or Spenser , or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room Thou art a monument, without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read , and praise to give .
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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 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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