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All discourses but my own afflict me they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome

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
Irksome
Seems
Impertinent
Discourses
Afflict
Discourse
Harsh
Speech
Seem

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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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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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Nor shall our cups make any guilty men But at our parting, we will be, as when We innocently met.
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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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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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Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.
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A good man will avoid the spot of any sin. The very aspersion is grievous, which makes him choose his way in his life, as he would in his journey.
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The world knows only two, that's Rome and I.
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Success hath made me wanton.
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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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In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
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Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.
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Neither do thou lust after that tawny weed tobacco.
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If all you boast of your great art be true Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.
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The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.
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Prevent your day at morning.
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Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.
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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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Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.
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Heaven prepares good men with crosses but no ill can happen to a good man.
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