I am reading Shakespeare and his Contemporaries, by Charles Nicholl. The end of his very brief biography of Ben does my little heart good, for pith, and vinegar.
Bedridden from a stroke, Jonson lived his last years at the Gate House at Westminster, with a drunken housekeeper and a pet fox.
Nicholl don't write half bad, do he? And as for Ben, you self-absorbed, mutton-faced, persnickety old bastard...
Well, I'd name a rose after you, man.