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Whom the disease of talking still once posses-seth, he can never hold his peace.
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
Hold
Talking
Peace
Stills
Still
Posses
Never
Posse
Seth
Disease
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Language most shows a man, speak that I may see thee.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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Affliction teacheth a wicked person sometime to pray prosperity never.
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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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The pipe marks the point at which the orangutan ends and man begins.
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It holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, which inwardly is most dear to us.
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Many might go to heaven with half the labour they go to hell, if they would venture their industry the right way.
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Neither do thou lust after that tawny weed tobacco.
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Truth is man's proper good, and the only immortal thing was given to our mortality to use.
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And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot.
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If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
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Aristotle was the first accurate critic and truest judge nay, the greatest philosopher the world ever had for he noted the vices of all knowledges, in all creatures, and out of many men's perfections in a science he formed still one Art.
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Calumnies are answered best with silence.
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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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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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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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A good life is a main argument.
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I would rather have a plain down-right wisdom than a foolish and affected eloquence.
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