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Good men but see death, the wicked taste it.

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
Men
Wicked
Taste
Death
Good

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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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The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.
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A good man will avoid the spot of any sin. The very aspersion is grievous, which makes him choose his way in his life, as he would in his journey.
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Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.
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The covetous man never has money. The prodigal will have none shortly.
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Force works on servile natures, not the free.
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If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
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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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Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace Robes loosely flowing, hair as free Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
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Ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings on ready writing.
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True melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit.
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If all you boast of your great art be true Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.
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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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Well, as he brews, so shall he drink.
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Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.
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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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How near to good is what is fair!
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All discourses but my own afflict me they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome
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Love that is ignorant and hatred have almost the same ends.
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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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