Ben Jonson

For a man to write well, there are required three necessaries — to read the best authors, observe the best speakers, and much exercise of his own style.

Language most shows a man; speak that I may see thee

Indeed there's a woundy luck in names.

SIR P: Sir, calumnies are answer'd best with silence.

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.

For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such, as what he loves may never like too much.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy

Many might go to heaven with half the labor they go to hell.

CORV: Honour! tut, a breath: There's no such thing, in nature: a mere term Invented to awe fools.

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

Words borrowed of antiquity do lend a kind of majesty to style, and are not without their delight sometimes.

MOS: And besides, sir, You are not like a thresher that doth stand With a huge flail, watching a heap of corn, And, hungry, dares not taste the smallest grain, But feeds on mallows, and such bitter herbs; Nor like the merchant, who hath fill'd his vaults With Romagnia, and rich Candian wines, Yet drinks the lees of Lombard's vinegar: You will not lie in straw, whilst moths and worms Feed on your sumptuous hangings and soft beds; You know the use of riches, and dare give now From that bright heap, to me, your poor observer, Or to your dwarf, or your hermaphrodite, Your eunuch, or what other household-trifle Your pleasure allows maintenance.

No, I do know that I was born
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:
But I will bear these with that scorn
As shall not need thy false relief.

Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.

Riches are in fortune A greater good than wisdom is in nature.

Memory, of all the powers of the mind, is the most delicate and frail.