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True melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit.

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
True
Breeds
Melancholy
Wit
Fine
Perfect

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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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Peace is never more than one thought away.
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How near to good is what is fair!
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Ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings on ready writing.
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Where it concerns himself, Who's angry at a slander, makes it true.
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If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
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The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.
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The day For whose returns, and many, all these pray And so do I.
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Spread yourself upon his bosom publicly, whose heart you would eat in private.
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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.
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Love that is ignorant and hatred have almost the same ends.
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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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There is no bounty to be showed to such As have real goodness: Bounty is A spice of virtue and what virtuous act Can take effect on them that have no power Of equal habitude to apprehend it?
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If men will impartially, and not asquint, look toward the offices and function of a poet, they will easily conclude to themselves the impossibility of any man's being a good poet without first being a good man.
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O, for an engine, to keep back all clocks, or make the sun forget his motion!
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The world knows only two, that's Rome and I.
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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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Who will not judge him worthy to be robbed That sets his doors wide open to a thief, And shows the felon where his treasure lies?
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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.
Ben Jonson