Ben Jonson Quotes - Page 8

Honor's a good brooch to wear in a man's hat at all times.

A new disease? I know not, new or old, but it may well be called poor mortals plague for, like a pestilence, it doth infect the houses of the brain till not a thought, or motion, in the mind, be free from the black poison of suspect.

Freedom doth with degree dispense.

Passions are spiritual rebels and raise sedition against the understanding.

Guilt's a terrible thing.

Ods me I marle what pleasure or felicity they have in taking their roguish tobacco. It is good for nothing but to choke a man, and fill him full of smoke and embers.

Minds that are great and free, should not on fortune pause: 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot.

Prevent your day at morning.

Whom the disease of talking still once posses-seth, he can never hold his peace.

Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.

I have been at my book; and am now past the craggy paths of study, and come to the flowery plains of honour and reputation

If all you boast of your great art be true; Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.

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?

Success hath made me wanton.

Though I am young, and cannot tell Either what Death or Love is well, Yet I have heard they both bear darts, And both do aim at human hearts. And then again, I have been told Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold; So that I fear they do but bring Extremes to touch, and mean one thing. As in a ruin we it call One thing to be blown up, or fall; Or to our end like way may have By a flash of lightning, or a wave; So Love’s inflamèd shaft or brand May kill as soon as Death’s cold hand; Except Love’s fires the virtue have To fight the frost out of the grave.

Still may syllables jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul; lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.

There is no doctrine will do good where nature is wanting.

Nor use too swelling, or ill-sounded words . . . .

Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.

In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be.

It is as great a spite to be praised in the wrong place, and by a wrong person, as can be done to a noble nature.

God wisheth none should wreck on a strange shelf: To him man's dearer than to himself.

I would rather have a plain down-right wisdom than a foolish and affected eloquence.