Ben Jonson

That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and that the honours due only to are paid to antiquity, is a complaint likely to be always continued by those who, being able to add nothing to truth, hope for eminence from the heresies of paradox; or those who, being forced by disappointment upon consolatory expedients, are willing to hope from posterity what the present age refuses, and flatter themselves that the regard which is yet denied by envy will be at last bestowed by time.

Those that merely talk and never think, That live in the wild anarchy of drink.

Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry: For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.

To see and to be seen.

The players have often mentioned it as an honor to Shakespeare that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he had blotted a thousand."

Language shows a man, speak that I may see thee.

He was not of an age but for all time.

Come my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns that set may rise again, But if once we lose this light 'Tis with us perpetual night.

True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in their worth and choice.

The covetous man never has money; the prodigal will have none shortly.