Ben Jonson ( 10 of 57 )
They that know no evil will suspect none.
They that know no evil will suspect none.
All concord's born of contraries.
All concord's born of contraries.
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.
He knows not his own strength that hath not met adversity.
He knows not his own strength that hath not met adversity.
But I do hate him as I hate the devil.
But I do hate him as I hate the devil.
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which read more
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long read more
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it falls and die that night--
It was the plant and flower of Light.
--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.
In the hope to meet
Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
In the hope to meet
Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
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.
