Quote

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.

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
Time
Sleep
Thou
Four
Thee
Five
Beats
Three
Dear
Pulse
Two
Watches
Hath
Enough
Watch
Strikes
Make
Wind
Beat
Would
Rest
Six

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No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.
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The world knows only two, that's Rome and I.
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A good life is a main argument.
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One woman reads another's character Without the tedious trouble of deciphering
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The poet is the nearest borderer upon the orator.
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The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.
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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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The covetous man never has money. The prodigal will have none shortly.
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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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Nothing is a courtesy unless it be meant us, and that friendly and lovingly. We owe no thanks to rivers that they carry our boats, or winds that they be favoring and fill our sails, or meats that they be nourishing for these are what they are necessarily. Horses carry us, trees shade us but they know it not.
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Each petty hand Can steer a ship becalm'd but he that will Govern and carry her to her ends, must know His tides, his currents, how to shift his sails What she will bear in foul, what in fair weathers Where her springs are, her leaks, and how to stop 'em What strands, what shelves, what rocks do threaten her.
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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home Can be contented to applaud myself, . . . with joy To see how plump my bags are and my barns.
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All discourses but my own afflict me they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome
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Passions are spiritual rebels and raise sedition against the understanding.
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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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Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.
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Books are faithful repositories, which may be awhile neglected or forgotten, but when they are opened again, will again impart their instruction.
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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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Follow a shadow, it still flies you, Seem to fly, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you Let her alone, she will court you. Say are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?
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