and how hath all true
reputation
fallen, since money began to
have any!
have any!
Ben Jonson - Discoveries Made Upon Men, and Some Poems
It
is vile, and a poor thing to place our happiness on these desires. Say
we wanted them all. Famine ends famine.
_De mollibus et effoeminatis_. --There is nothing valiant or solid to be
hoped for from such as are always kempt and perfumed, and every day smell
of the tailor; the exceedingly curious that are wholly in mending such an
imperfection in the face, in taking away the morphew in the neck, or
bleaching their hands at midnight, gumming and bridling their beards, or
making the waist small, binding it with hoops, while the mind runs at
waste; too much pickedness is not manly. Not from those that will jest
at their own outward imperfections, but hide their ulcers within, their
pride, lust, envy, ill-nature, with all the art and authority they can.
These persons are in danger, for whilst they think to justify their
ignorance by impudence, and their persons by clothes and outward
ornaments, they use but a commission to deceive themselves: where, if we
will look with our understanding, and not our senses, we may behold
virtue and beauty (though covered with rags) in their brightness; and
vice and deformity so much the fouler, in having all the splendour of
riches to gild them, or the false light of honour and power to help them.
Yet this is that wherewith the world is taken, and runs mad to gaze
on--clothes and titles, the birdlime of fools.
_De stultitia_. --What petty things they are we wonder at, like children
that esteem every trifle, and prefer a fairing before their fathers!
What difference is between us and them but that we are dearer fools,
coxcombs at a higher rate? They are pleased with cockleshells, whistles,
hobby-horses, and such like; we with statues, marble pillars, pictures,
gilded roofs, where underneath is lath and lime, perhaps loam. Yet we
take pleasure in the lie, and are glad we can cozen ourselves. Nor is it
only in our walls and ceilings, but all that we call happiness is mere
painting and gilt, and all for money. What a thin membrane of honour
that is!
and how hath all true reputation fallen, since money began to
have any! Yet the great herd, the multitude, that in all other things
are divided, in this alone conspire and agree--to love money. They wish
for it, they embrace it, they adore it, while yet it is possessed with
greater stir and torment than it is gotten.
_De sibi molestis_. --Some men what losses soever they have they make them
greater, and if they have none, even all that is not gotten is a loss.
Can there be creatures of more wretched condition than these, that
continually labour under their own misery and others' envy? A man should
study other things, not to covet, not to fear, not to repent him; to make
his base such as no tempest shall shake him; to be secure of all opinion,
and pleasing to himself, even for that wherein he displeaseth others; for
the worst opinion gotten for doing well, should delight us. Wouldst not
thou be just but for fame, thou oughtest to be it with infamy; he that
would have his virtue published is not the servant of virtue, but glory.
_Periculosa melancholia_. --It is a dangerous thing when men's minds come
to sojourn with their affections, and their diseases eat into their
strength; that when too much desire and greediness of vice hath made the
body unfit, or unprofitable, it is yet gladded with the sight and
spectacle of it in others; and for want of ability to be an actor, is
content to be a witness. It enjoys the pleasure of sinning in beholding
others sin, as in dining, drinking, drabbing, &c. Nay, when it cannot do
all these, it is offended with his own narrowness, that excludes it from
the universal delights of mankind, and oftentimes dies of a melancholy,
that it cannot be vicious enough.
_Falsae species fugiendae_. --I am glad when I see any man avoid the infamy
of a vice; but to shun the vice itself were better. Till he do that he
is but like the 'pientice, who, being loth to be spied by his master
coming forth of Black Lucy's, went in again; to whom his master cried,
"The more thou runnest that way to hide thyself, the more thou art in the
place. " So are those that keep a tavern all day, that they may not be
seen at night.
is vile, and a poor thing to place our happiness on these desires. Say
we wanted them all. Famine ends famine.
_De mollibus et effoeminatis_. --There is nothing valiant or solid to be
hoped for from such as are always kempt and perfumed, and every day smell
of the tailor; the exceedingly curious that are wholly in mending such an
imperfection in the face, in taking away the morphew in the neck, or
bleaching their hands at midnight, gumming and bridling their beards, or
making the waist small, binding it with hoops, while the mind runs at
waste; too much pickedness is not manly. Not from those that will jest
at their own outward imperfections, but hide their ulcers within, their
pride, lust, envy, ill-nature, with all the art and authority they can.
These persons are in danger, for whilst they think to justify their
ignorance by impudence, and their persons by clothes and outward
ornaments, they use but a commission to deceive themselves: where, if we
will look with our understanding, and not our senses, we may behold
virtue and beauty (though covered with rags) in their brightness; and
vice and deformity so much the fouler, in having all the splendour of
riches to gild them, or the false light of honour and power to help them.
Yet this is that wherewith the world is taken, and runs mad to gaze
on--clothes and titles, the birdlime of fools.
_De stultitia_. --What petty things they are we wonder at, like children
that esteem every trifle, and prefer a fairing before their fathers!
What difference is between us and them but that we are dearer fools,
coxcombs at a higher rate? They are pleased with cockleshells, whistles,
hobby-horses, and such like; we with statues, marble pillars, pictures,
gilded roofs, where underneath is lath and lime, perhaps loam. Yet we
take pleasure in the lie, and are glad we can cozen ourselves. Nor is it
only in our walls and ceilings, but all that we call happiness is mere
painting and gilt, and all for money. What a thin membrane of honour
that is!
and how hath all true reputation fallen, since money began to
have any! Yet the great herd, the multitude, that in all other things
are divided, in this alone conspire and agree--to love money. They wish
for it, they embrace it, they adore it, while yet it is possessed with
greater stir and torment than it is gotten.
_De sibi molestis_. --Some men what losses soever they have they make them
greater, and if they have none, even all that is not gotten is a loss.
Can there be creatures of more wretched condition than these, that
continually labour under their own misery and others' envy? A man should
study other things, not to covet, not to fear, not to repent him; to make
his base such as no tempest shall shake him; to be secure of all opinion,
and pleasing to himself, even for that wherein he displeaseth others; for
the worst opinion gotten for doing well, should delight us. Wouldst not
thou be just but for fame, thou oughtest to be it with infamy; he that
would have his virtue published is not the servant of virtue, but glory.
_Periculosa melancholia_. --It is a dangerous thing when men's minds come
to sojourn with their affections, and their diseases eat into their
strength; that when too much desire and greediness of vice hath made the
body unfit, or unprofitable, it is yet gladded with the sight and
spectacle of it in others; and for want of ability to be an actor, is
content to be a witness. It enjoys the pleasure of sinning in beholding
others sin, as in dining, drinking, drabbing, &c. Nay, when it cannot do
all these, it is offended with his own narrowness, that excludes it from
the universal delights of mankind, and oftentimes dies of a melancholy,
that it cannot be vicious enough.
_Falsae species fugiendae_. --I am glad when I see any man avoid the infamy
of a vice; but to shun the vice itself were better. Till he do that he
is but like the 'pientice, who, being loth to be spied by his master
coming forth of Black Lucy's, went in again; to whom his master cried,
"The more thou runnest that way to hide thyself, the more thou art in the
place. " So are those that keep a tavern all day, that they may not be
seen at night.
