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Tell troth and shame the devil.

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
Tell
Truth
Troth
Shame
Devil

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Rich apparel has strange virtues it makes him that hath it without means esteemed for an excellent wit he that enjoys it with means puts the world in remembrance of his means.
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Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.
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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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Tis the common disease of all your musicians that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin or end.
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Where it concerns himself, Who's angry at a slander, makes it true.
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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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Silence in woman is like speech in 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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Out of clothes out of countenance, out of countenance out of wit.
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Success produces confidence confidence relaxes industry, and negligence ruins the reputation which accuracy had raised.
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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.
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Ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings on ready writing.
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In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
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Forbear, you things That stand upon the pinnacles of state, To boast your slippery height! when you do fall, You dash yourselves in pieces, ne'er to rise: And he that lends you pity, is not wise.
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The man that is once hated, both his good and his evil deeds oppress him.
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Of all wild beasts preserve me from a tyrant and of all tame a flatterer.
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Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.
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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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Prevent your day at morning.
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Hell itself must yield to industry.
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