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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
Melancholy
Wit
Fine
Perfect
True
Breeds

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Out of clothes out of countenance, out of countenance out of wit.
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Success hath made me wanton.
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There is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear.
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Words borrowed of Antiquity do lend a kind of Majesty to style, and are not without their delight sometimes. For they have the authority of years, and out of their intermission do win to themselves a kind of grace-like newness. But the eldest of the present, and newest of the past Language, is the best.
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The pipe marks the point at which the orangutan ends and man begins.
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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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Neither do thou lust after that tawny weed tobacco.
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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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Success produces confidence confidence relaxes industry, and negligence ruins the reputation which accuracy had raised.
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Ambition, like a torrent, ne'er looks back And is a swelling, and the last affection A high mind can put off being both a rebel Unto the soul and reason, and enforceth All laws, all conscience, treads upon religion, and offereth violence to nature's self.
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It is less dishonor to hear imperfectly than to speak imperfectly. The ears are excused the understanding is 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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Heaven prepares good men with crosses but no ill can happen to a good man.
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Whom the disease of talking still once posses-seth, he can never hold his peace.
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Freedom doth with degree dispense.
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Ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings on ready writing.
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The way to rise is to obey and please.
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Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love, Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever Spend not then his gifts in vain: Suns that set may rise again But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumour are but toys.
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The day For whose returns, and many, all these pray And so do I.
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Good men but see death, the wicked taste it.
Ben Jonson