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Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?

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
Consumed
Midnight
Toil
Hath
Oil
Learning
Books
Book
Whence

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The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
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The luxury of doing good surpasses every other personal enjoyment.
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To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
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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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[Gulliver was soon being read] from the cabinet council to the nursery.
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Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.
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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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I must have women - there is nothing unbends the mind like them.
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O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.
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Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them!
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To friendship every burden's light.
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Breathe soft, ye winds! ye waves, in silence sleep!
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Fill ev'ry glass, for wine inspires us, And fires us With courage, love and joy. Women and wine should life employ. Is there ought else on earth desirous?
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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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Who hath not heard the rich complain Of surfeits, and corporeal pain? He barr'd from every use of wealth, Envies the ploughman's strength and health.
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A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much
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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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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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No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who've no retreat.
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Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
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