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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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Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.
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Court a mistress, she denies you let her alone, she will court you.
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I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.
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The way to rise is to obey and please.
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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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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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Reader look, not on his picture but his book.
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Spread yourself upon his bosom publicly, whose heart you would eat in private.
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Confound these ancestors... They've stolen our best ideas!
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If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
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Neither do thou lust after that tawny weed tobacco.
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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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Passions are spiritual rebels and raise sedition against the understanding.
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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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Where it concerns himself, Who's angry at a slander, makes it true.
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Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.
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Love that is ignorant and hatred have almost the same ends.
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To men pressed by their wants all change is ever welcome.
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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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