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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
Wicked
Taste
Death
Good
Men

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To men pressed by their wants all change is ever welcome.
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Prevent your day at morning.
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Drink today, and drown all sorrow You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow Best, while you have it, use your breath There is no drinking after death.
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A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his government is groping.
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The soul of man is infinite in what it covets.
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In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
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Force works on servile natures, not the free.
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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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Cares that have entered once in the breast, will have whole possession of the rest.
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Each petty hand Can steer a ship becalm'd but he that will Govern and carry her to her ends, must know His tides, his currents, how to shift his sails What she will bear in foul, what in fair weathers Where her springs are, her leaks, and how to stop 'em What strands, what shelves, what rocks do threaten her.
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A good man should and must Sit rather down with loss than rise unjust.
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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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I have discovered that a famed familiarity in great ones is a note of certain usurpation on the less for great and popular men feign themselves to be servants to others to make those slaves to them.
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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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Tis not the wholesome sharp mortality, Or modest anger of a satiric spirit, That hurts or wounds the body of a state, But the sinister application Of the malicious, ignorant, and base Interpreter who will distort and strain The general scope and purpose of an author To his particular and private spleen.
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Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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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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Success hath made me wanton.
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To the old, long life and treasure To the young, all health and pleasure.
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