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Cut Men’s throats with whisperings.

Ben Jonson

Men that talk of their own benefits are not believed to talk of them because they have done them, but to have done them because they might talk of them.
BEN JONSON

Benefits Done Men
Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast, Still to be powder’d, all perfum’d. Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.
BEN JONSON

Art Causes Drest Near Sweet
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.
BEN JONSON

Chair Light Queens Seated Sleep
A good king is a public servant.
BEN JONSON

Good King Kings Servant
Wine it is the milk of Venus, And the poet’s horse accounted: Ply it and you all are mounted.
BEN JONSON

Horse Plies Wine
All concord’s born of contraries.
BEN JONSON

Born Contradiction Contrary
I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never plotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand.
BEN JONSON

Answer Lines Mention Penend Player Writing
Folly often goes beyond her bounds, but impudence knows none.
BEN JONSON

Folly Impudence Rudeness
A thankful man owes a courtesy ever; the unthankful but when he needs it.
BEN JONSON

Gratitude Men Needs
Get money, still get money, boy, no matter by what means.
BEN JONSON

Boys Mean Money
I glory, more in the cunning purchase of my wealth than in the glad possession.
BEN JONSON

Glory Greed Wealth
Whom hatred frights, let him not dream of sovereignty.
BEN JONSON

Dream Hate Hatred
If men will impartially, and not asquint, look toward the offices and function of a poet, they will easily conclude to themselves the impossibility of any man’s being a good poet without first being a good man.
BEN JONSON

Good Man Men Office
Hell itself must yield to industry.
BEN JONSON

Hell Industry Yield
I have no urns, no dusty monuments; No broken images of ancestors, Wanting an ear, or nose; no forged tales Of long descents, to boast false honors from.
BEN JONSON

Broken Honor Long
Chance will not do the work. Chance sends the breeze; But if the pilot slumber at the helm, The very wind that wafts us tow’rds the port May dash us on the shoals. The steersman’s part Is vigilance, or blow it rough or smooth.
BEN JONSON

Blow Slumber Wind

Cut Men’s throats with whisperings.

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Cut Men’s throats with whisperings.

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