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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.
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
Goodness
Life
Sin
Choose
Journey
Aspersion
Makes
Grievous
Way
Spot
Good
Spots
Would
Avoid
More quotes by Ben Jonson
Woman, the more careful she is about her face, the more careless about her house.
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It holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, which inwardly is most dear to us.
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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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True melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit.
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Prevent your day at morning.
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There is no greater hell than to be a prisoner of fear.
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I know no disease of the soul but ignorance, a pernicious evil, the darkener of man's life, the disturber of his reason, and common confounder of truth.
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There is no bounty to be showed to such As have real goodness: Bounty is A spice of virtue and what virtuous act Can take effect on them that have no power Of equal habitude to apprehend it?
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Blueness doth express trueness.
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Were Guilt is, Rage and Courage doth abound.
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Where it concerns himself, Who's angry at a slander, makes it true.
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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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Truth is man's proper good, and the only immortal thing was given to our mortality to use.
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To the old, long life and treasure To the young, all health and pleasure.
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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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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 the common disease of all your musicians that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin or end.
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Who will not judge him worthy to be robbed That sets his doors wide open to a thief, And shows the felon where his treasure lies?
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All discourses but my own afflict me they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome
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Cares that have entered once in the breast, will have whole possession of the rest.
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