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What excellent fools religion makes of men.

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
Fools
Excellent
Fool
Religious
Religion
Makes
Men

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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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The pipe marks the point at which the orangutan ends and man begins.
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Now we are all fallen, youth from their fear, And age from that which bred it, good example.
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He that would have his virtue published, is not the servant of virtue, but glory.
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Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.
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If you be sick, your own thoughts make you sick
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The soul of man is infinite in what it covets.
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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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Aristotle was the first accurate critic and truest judge nay, the greatest philosopher the world ever had for he noted the vices of all knowledges, in all creatures, and out of many men's perfections in a science he formed still one Art.
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The dignity of truth is lost with much protesting.
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Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.
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The day For whose returns, and many, all these pray And so do I.
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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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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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He was not of an age, but for all time!
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Force works on servile natures, not the free.
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Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.
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Great honours are great burdens, but on whom They are cast with envy, he doth bear two loads.
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Folly often goes beyond her bounds, but impudence knows none.
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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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