Ben Jonson Quotes
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The Devil is an Ass, I do acknowledge it.
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I now think, Love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind.
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Those that merely talk and never think, That live in the wild anarchy of drink.
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There shall be no love lost.
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The world knows only two, - that's Rome and I.
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If he were To be made honest by an act of parliament I should not alter in my faith of him.
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Art hath an enemy call'd ignorance.
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They say princes learn no art truly, but the art of horsemanship. The reason is, the brave beast is no flatterer. He will throw a prince as soon as his groom.
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Truth is the trial of itself And needs no other touch, And purer than the purest gold, Refine it ne'er so much.
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Get money; still get money, boy, No matter by what means.
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It must be done like lightning.
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Rhyme, the rack of finest wits, That expresseth but by fits, True conceit, Spoiling senses of their treasure, Cozening judgement with a measure, But false weight. Wresting words from their true calling; Propping verse, for fear of falling To the ground. Jointing syllables, drowning letters, Fastening vowels, as with fetters They were bound!
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Opinion is a light, vain, crude, and imperfect thing.
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Still may syllabes jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!
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In the meantime, to all suits, to all entreaties, to all letters, to all tricks, I will be deaf as an adder, blind as a beetle, lay mine ear to the ground, and lock mine eyes i' my hand against all temptations.
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I will eat exceedingly, and prophesy.
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True happiness Consists not in the multitude of friends, But in the worth and choice.
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Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin, Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.
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Preserving the sweetness of proportion and expressing itself beyond expression.
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The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And, though the sound were parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.
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Come my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever, 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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That Donne himself, for not being understood, would perish.
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Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse,- Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. Death, ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.
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Courses even with the sun Doth her mighty brother run.