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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
Afflict
Discourse
Harsh
Speech
Seem
Seems
Irksome
Impertinent
Discourses

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I'll give anything for a good copy now, be it true or false, so it be news.
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Tis not the wholesome sharp mortality, Or modest anger of a satiric spirit, That hurts or wounds the body of a state, But the sinister application Of the malicious, ignorant, and base Interpreter who will distort and strain The general scope and purpose of an author To his particular and private spleen.
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Whom the disease of talking still once posses-seth, he can never hold his peace.
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Woman, the more careful she is about her face, the more careless about her house.
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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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Queen and huntress, chaste and fair Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light Goddess, excellently bright.
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Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace Robes loosely flowing, hair as free Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
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Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.
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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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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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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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Of all wild beasts preserve me from a tyrant and of all tame a flatterer.
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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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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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The covetous man never has money. The prodigal will have none shortly.
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The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.
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A good life is a main argument.
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Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.
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Prevent your day at morning.
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Folly often goes beyond her bounds, but impudence knows none.
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