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The man that is once hated, both his good and his evil deeds oppress him.

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
Men
Oppress
Despise
Hated
Deeds
Evil
Hate
Good

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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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Queen and huntress, chaste and fair Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light Goddess, excellently bright.
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Court a mistress, she denies you let her alone, she will court you.
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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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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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I do honor the very flea of his dog.
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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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Truth is man's proper good, and the only immortal thing was given to our mortality to use.
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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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Success hath made me wanton.
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He was not of an age, but for all time!
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Good men but see death, the wicked taste it.
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One woman reads another's character Without the tedious trouble of deciphering
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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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The pipe marks the point at which the orangutan ends and man begins.
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To the old, long life and treasure To the young, all health and pleasure.
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Our whole life is like a play.
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The soul of man is infinite in what it covets.
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I see compassion may become a justice, though it be a weakness, I confess, and nearer a vice than a virtue.
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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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