Quotes from Ben Jonson

Marlowe's mighty line.

Soul of the age!The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee byChaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lieA 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.

Greatness of name in the father… oft-times overwhelms the son; they stand too near one another. The shadow kills the growth: so much, that we see the grandchild come more and oftener to be heir of the first.

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.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honoring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not wither'd be.But thou thereon didst only breathe,And sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee.

Underneath this stone doth lieAs much beauty as could die;Which in life did harbor giveTo more virtue than doth live.

As he brews, so shall he drink.

What a deal of cold business doth a man misspend the better of life in!—in scattering compliments, tendering visits, gathering and venting news, following feasts and plays, making a little winter love in a dark corner.

Nor shall our cups make any guilty men:But, at our parting, we will be, as whenWe innocently met.

Art hath an enemy called Ignorance.

For a good poet's made, as well as born.

In the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.

[L]eave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek.

Give me a look, give me a face,That makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all the adulteries of art:They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Calumnies are answered best with silence.

Oh, I could still(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill)Drop, drop, drop, drop,Since nature's pride is, now, a wither'd daffodil.

It must be done like lightning.

Still to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast.

Call forth thundering Aeschylus.

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.

Reader, look,Not at his picture, but his book.

Follow a shadow, it still flies you;Seem to fly it, it will pursue:So court a mistress, she denies you;Let her alone, she will court you.

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.