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Art hath an enemy call'd ignorance .

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
Call
Art
Hath
Ignorance
Enemy

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A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his government is groping.
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Affliction teacheth a wicked person sometime to pray prosperity never.
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Passions are spiritual rebels and raise sedition against the understanding.
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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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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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Nothing is a courtesy unless it be meant us, and that friendly and lovingly. We owe no thanks to rivers that they carry our boats, or winds that they be favoring and fill our sails, or meats that they be nourishing for these are what they are necessarily. Horses carry us, trees shade us but they know it not.
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How near to good is what is fair!
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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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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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Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.
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I glory, more in the cunning purchase of my wealth than in the glad possession.
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Folly often goes beyond her bounds, but impudence knows none.
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It is less dishonor to hear imperfectly than to speak imperfectly. The ears are excused the understanding is not.
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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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I see compassion may become a justice, though it be a weakness, I confess, and nearer a vice than a virtue.
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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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O, for an engine, to keep back all clocks, or make the sun forget his motion!
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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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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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Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.
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