Obviously Jonson was brave, combative, and not averse to talking of himself and his doings. In 1592, Jonson returned from abroad penniless.
b3148862965compartió una citael año pasado
"All that I am in arts, all that I know;"
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
An old man's gravity, or strict canon, think What a young wife and a good brain may do; Stretch age's truth sometimes, and crack it too. Speak for thy self, knave."
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
That master That had received such happiness by a servant, In such a widow, and with so much wealth, Were very ungrateful, if he would not be A little indulgent to that servant's wit, And help his fortune, though with some small strain Of his own candour.
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
KAS. Yes, an thou canst take tobacco and drink, old boy, I'll give her five hundred pound more to her marriage, Than her own state.
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
KAS. 'Slight, I must love him! I cannot choose, i'faith, An I should be hang'd for't! Suster, I protest, I honour thee for this match
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
KAS. Come on, you ewe, you have match'd most sweetly, have you not? Did not I say, I would never have you tupp'd But by a dubb'd boy, to make you a lady-tom? 'Slight, you are a mammet! O, I could touse you, now. Death, mun' you marry, with a pox!
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
ANA. I am strong, And will stand up, well girt, against an host That threaten Gad in exile.
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
LOVE. Mine earnest vehement botcher, And deacon also, I cannot dispute with you: But if you get you not away the sooner, I shall confute you with a cudgel.
Leonie Stoffercompartió una citahace 4 años
ANA. I do defy The wicked Mammon, so do all the brethren, Thou profane man! I ask thee with what conscience Thou canst advance that idol against us, That have the seal? were not the shillings number'd, That made the pounds; were not the pounds told out, Upon the second day of the fourth week, In the eighth month, upon the table dormant, The year of the last patience of the saints, Six hundred and ten?