Ben Jonson

So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, not scarce
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So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, not scarce
Lie still without a fee.

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.

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.

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.

Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home
Can be contented to applaud myself, . . . read more

Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home
Can be contented to applaud myself, . . . with joy
To see how plump my bags are and my barns.