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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
Learning
Books
Book
Whence
Consumed
Midnight
Toil
Hath
Oil

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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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O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.
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She who has never lov'd, has never liv'd.
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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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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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Envy is a kind of praise.
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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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A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much
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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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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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What will not luxury taste? Earth, sea, and air, Are daily ransack'd for the bill of fare. Blood stuffed in skins is British Christians' food, And France robs marshes of the croaking brood.
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Fair words cost nothing.
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The luxury of doing good surpasses every other personal enjoyment.
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Man may escape from rope and gun Nay, some have outlived the doctor's pill: Who takes a woman must be undone, That basilisk is sure to kill. The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets, So he that tastes woman, woman, woman, He that tastes woman, ruin meets.
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The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
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Can love be controll'd by advice?
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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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Envy's a sharper spur than pay.
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To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
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Praising all alike, is praising none.
John Gay