Ben Jonson

I have only made my play for my own pleasure, and for the pleasure of those few that are well acquainted with me.

Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it.

Sweet Swan of Avon!

For a good poet's made, as well as born.

The raiser of the stage, the glee of nations.

Look back who list, unto the ancient line Of those who have sat here and passed away.

The world is made for men, not for women.

I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honor to Shakespeare, that in his writing, whatsoever he penned, he never blotted out line. My answer hath been, 'Would he had blotted a thousand.'

Talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak, and to speak well, are two things.

Others may use the occasion of a panegyric to the memory of the dead for a satire on the living.

In the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice is made the slave.

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine.

But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

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.

My architects raised it, and now the bricklayers are to finish it.

I have sat above twenty-five years a-writing plays

O rare Ben Jonson!