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I glory, more in the cunning purchase of my wealth than in the glad possession.

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
Greed
Possession
Glad
Glory
Wealth
Purchase
Avarice
Cunning

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Freedom doth with degree dispense.
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I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul lest it be thought the breath Of discontent or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.
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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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I perceive affection makes a fool Of any man too much the father.
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The covetous man never has money. The prodigal will have none shortly.
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I do honor the very flea of his dog.
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He threatens many that hath injured one.
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It is an art to have so much judgment as to apparel a lie well, to give it a good dressing.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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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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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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Blueness doth express trueness.
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A good life is a main argument.
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Affliction teacheth a wicked person sometime to pray prosperity never.
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To the old, long life and treasure To the young, all health and pleasure.
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The man that is once hated, both his good and his evil deeds oppress him.
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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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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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