Ben Jonson

The burnt child dreads the fire.

The burnt child dreads the fire.

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.

O what is it proud slime will not believe
Of his own worth, to hear it equal praised
read more

O what is it proud slime will not believe
Of his own worth, to hear it equal praised
Thus with the gods?

'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
But the sweet thefts to reveal;
To be taken, to read more

'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
But the sweet thefts to reveal;
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.

A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his
government is groping.

A prince without letters is a Pilot without eyes. All his
government is groping.