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Success hath made me wanton.

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
Wanton
Hath
Success
Made

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The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.
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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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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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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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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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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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He threatens many that hath injured one.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
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If you succeed not, cast not away the quills yet, nor scratch the wainscot, beat not the poor desk, but bring all to the forge and file again turn it new.
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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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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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Neither do thou lust after that tawny weed tobacco.
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Well, as he brews, so shall he drink.
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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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I do honor the very flea of his dog.
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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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No glass renders a man's form or likeness so true as his speech.
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Silence in woman is like speech in man.
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