A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.
BEN JONSONYou are not now to think what’s best to do, As in beginnings, but what must be done, Being thus enter’d; and slip no advantage That may secure you. Let them call it mischief; When it is past, and prosper’d , ’twill be virtue.
More Ben Jonson Quotes
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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.
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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
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Who falls for love of God, shall rise a star.
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Indeed there’s a woundy luck in names.
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For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.
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Freedom doth with degree dispense.
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Folly often goes beyond her bounds, but impudence knows none.
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Follow a shadow, it still flies you, Seem to fly, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?
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The soul of man is infinite in what it covets.
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Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.
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We are persons of quality, I assure you, and women of fashion, and come to see and to be seen.
BEN JONSON -
You are not now to think what’s best to do, As in beginnings, but what must be done, Being thus enter’d; and slip no advantage That may secure you. Let them call it mischief; When it is past, and prosper’d , ’twill be virtue.
BEN JONSON -
Language most shows a man; speak that I may see thee; it springs out of the most retired and inmost parts of us, and is the image of the parent of it, the mind. No glass renders a man’s form or likeness so true as his speech.
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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.
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The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.
BEN JONSON