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No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who've no retreat.

John Gay

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John Gay
Age: 47 †
Born: 1685
Born: June 30
Died: 1732
Died: December 4
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Barnstaple
Devon
Retreat
Conquer
Victory
Dies
Must

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Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
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Gamesters and highwaymen are generally very good to their whores, but they are very devils to their wives.
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Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother Wits are gamecocks to one another.
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She who has never lov'd, has never liv'd.
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In beauty faults conspicuous grow The smallest speck is seen on snow.
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Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon'd round, And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown'd? No the dead know it not, nor profit gain It only serves to prove the living vain.
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Shall ignorance of good and ill Dare to direct the eternal will? Seek virtue, and of that possest, To Providence resign the rest.
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To frame the little animal, provide All the gay hues that wait on female pride: Let Nature guide thee sometimes golden wire The shining bellies of the fly require The peacock's plumes thy tackle must not fail, Nor the dear purchase of the sable's tail.
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A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much
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Some folks of cider make a rout And cider's well enough no doubt When better liquors fail But wine, that's richer, better still, Ev'n wine itself (deny't who will) Must yield to nappy ale
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Nor love, not honor, wealth nor power, can give the heart a cheerful hour when health is lost. Be timely wise With health all taste of pleasure flies.
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Around the steel no tortur'd worm shall twine, No blood of living insect stain my line Let me, less cruel, cast the feather'd hook, With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook, Silent along the mazy margin stray, And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.
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Envy's a sharper spur than pay.
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Is there no hope? the sick man said, The silent doctor shook his head, And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
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The careful insect 'midst his works I view, Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew, With golden treasures load his little thighs, And steer his distant journey through the skies.
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You can only be called a hypocrite if you judge others first.
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To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
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The charge is prepared the lawyers are met The judges all ranged (a terrible show!) I go, undismay'd. For death is a debt, A debt on demand. So take what I owe.
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Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them!
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The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
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