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Spread yourself upon his bosom publicly, whose heart you would eat in private.

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
Would
Bosoms
Publicly
Hypocrisy
Spread
Private
Whose
Upon
Heart
Bosom

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I have discovered that a famed familiarity in great ones is a note of certain usurpation on the less for great and popular men feign themselves to be servants to others to make those slaves to them.
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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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In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
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Cares that have entered once in the breast, will have whole possession of the rest.
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Heaven prepares good men with crosses but no ill can happen to a good man.
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Many punishments sometimes, and in some cases, as much discredit a prince as many funerals a physician.
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Well, I will scourge those apes, And to these courteous eyes oppose a mirror, As large as is the stage whereon we act Where they shall see the time's deformity Anatomised in every nerve, and sinew, With constant courage, and contempt of fear.
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Prevent your day at morning.
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To speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.
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Drink today, and drown all sorrow You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow Best, while you have it, use your breath There is no drinking after death.
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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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Love that is ignorant and hatred have almost the same ends.
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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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Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.
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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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No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.
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Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.
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I have no urns, no dusty monuments No broken images of ancestors, Wanting an ear, or nose no forged tales Of long descents, to boast false honors from.
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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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A good man should and must Sit rather down with loss than rise unjust.
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