Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson
Benjamin "Ben" Jonsonwas an English playwright, poet, actor and literary critic of the 17th century, whose artistry exerted a lasting impact upon English poetry and stage comedy. He popularised the comedy of humours. He is best known for the satirical plays Every Man in His Humour, Volpone, or The Foxe, The Alchemistand Bartholomew Fayre: A Comedyand for his lyric poetry; he is generally regarded as the second most important English dramatist, after William Shakespeare, during the reign of James I...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth11 June 1572
A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his government is groping.
I see compassion may become a justice, though it be a weakness, I confess, and nearer a vice than a virtue.
A valiant man Ought not to undergo, or tempt a danger, But worthily, and by selected ways, He undertakes with reason, not by chance. His valor is the salt t' his other virtues, They're all unseason'd without it.
Freedom doth with degree dispense.
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.
Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the public stamp makes the current money.
Ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings on ready writing.
[The play] is like to be a very conceited scurvy one, in plain English.
If all you boast of your great art be true; Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.
Truth is man's proper good, and the only immortal thing was given to our mortality to use.
Ambition, like a torrent, ne'er looks back; And is a swelling, and the last affection A high mind can put off; being both a rebel Unto the soul and reason, and enforceth All laws, all conscience, treads upon religion, and offereth violence to nature's self.
Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare , rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer or Spenser , or bid Beaumont lie A 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 .
Success hath made me wanton.
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.