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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
Makes
Men
Fools
Excellent
Fool
Religious
Religion

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Art hath an enemy call'd ignorance .
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Words borrowed of Antiquity do lend a kind of Majesty to style, and are not without their delight sometimes. For they have the authority of years, and out of their intermission do win to themselves a kind of grace-like newness. But the eldest of the present, and newest of the past Language, is the best.
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O, for an engine, to keep back all clocks, or make the sun forget his motion!
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Prevent your day at morning.
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Spread yourself upon his bosom publicly, whose heart you would eat in private.
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Success hath made me wanton.
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Freedom doth with degree dispense.
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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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Force works on servile natures, not the free.
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Books are faithful repositories, which may be awhile neglected or forgotten, but when they are opened again, will again impart their instruction.
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Tell troth and shame the devil.
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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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Whom the disease of talking still once posses-seth, he can never hold his peace.
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Well, I will scourge those apes, And to these courteous eyes oppose a mirror, As large as is the stage whereon we act Where they shall see the time's deformity Anatomised in every nerve, and sinew, With constant courage, and contempt of fear.
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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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I do honor the very flea of his dog.
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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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Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love, Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever Spend not then his gifts in vain: Suns that set may rise again But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumour are but toys.
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Sweet Swan of Avon! What a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear.
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Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine.
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