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Where it concerns himself, Who's angry at a slander, makes it true.

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
Slander
Concerns
Concern
Angry
Makes
True

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It strikes! one, two, Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch, Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest Would thou could'st make the time to do so too I'll wind thee up no more.
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Follow a shadow, it still flies you, Seem to fly, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you Let her alone, she will court you. Say are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?
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Doing, a filthy pleasure is, and short And done, we straight repent us of the sport: Let us not rush blindly on unto it, Like lustful beasts, that only know to do it: For lust will languish, and that heat decay, But thus, thus, keeping endless Holy-.
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Force works on servile natures, not the free.
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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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If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
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Of all wild beasts preserve me from a tyrant and of all tame a flatterer.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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It is the highest of earthly honors to be descended from the great and good. They alone cry out against a noble ancestry who have none of their own.
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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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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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Cares that have entered once in the breast, will have whole possession of the rest.
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Success hath made me wanton.
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Well, as he brews, so shall he drink.
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Nothing is more short-lived than pride.
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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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O, for an engine, to keep back all clocks, or make the sun forget his motion!
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One woman reads another's character Without the tedious trouble of deciphering
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Folly often goes beyond her bounds, but impudence knows none.
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He that would have his virtue published, is not the servant of virtue, but glory.
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