Ben Jonson ( 10 of 57 )
I am grieved that it should be said he is my brother, and take these courses. Well, as he brews, read more
I am grieved that it should be said he is my brother, and take these courses. Well, as he brews, so shall he drink, for George again. Yet he shall hear on't, and tightly, too, an' I live, i'faith.
Follow a shadow, it still flies you,
Seem to fly, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, read more
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?
And so to tread
As if the wind, not she, did walk;
Nor prest a flower, nor read more
And so to tread
As if the wind, not she, did walk;
Nor prest a flower, nor bow'd a stalk.
--They write here one Cornelius--Son
Hath made the Hollanders an invisible eel
To swim the haven at read more
--They write here one Cornelius--Son
Hath made the Hollanders an invisible eel
To swim the haven at Dunkirk, and sink all
The shipping there.
--But how is't done?
--I'll show you, sir.
It is automa, runs under water
With a snug nose, and has a nimble tail
Made like an auger, with which tail she wriggles
Betwixt the costs of a ship and sinks it straight.
All concord's born of contraries.
All concord's born of contraries.
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . read more
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . .
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
But I do hate him as I hate the devil.
But I do hate him as I hate the devil.
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!
Hang sorrow, care 'll kill a cat.
Hang sorrow, care 'll kill a cat.
I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour to
Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he read more
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.
