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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
Must
Retreat
Conquer
Victory
Dies

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Breathe soft, ye winds! ye waves, in silence sleep!
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O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.
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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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I must have women - there is nothing unbends the mind like them.
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I cannot raise my worth too high Of what vast consequence am I! Not of the importance you suppose, Replies a Flea upon his nose Be humble, learn thyself to scan Know, pride was never made for man.
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Can love be controll'd by advice?
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To friendship every burden's light.
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If the heart of a man is depressed with cares, The mist is dispelled when a woman appears.
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Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.
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Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
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Can you support the expense of a husband, hussy, in gaming, drinking and whoring? Have you money enough to carry on the daily quarrels of man and wife about who shall squander most?
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Do you think your mother and I should have lived comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married? Baggage!
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Envy is a kind of praise.
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The luxury of doing good surpasses every other personal enjoyment.
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A rich rogue nowadays is fit company for any gentleman and the world, my dear, hath not such a contempt for roguery as you imagine.
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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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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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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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My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.
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Fair words cost nothing.
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