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In every age and clime we see Two of a trade can never agree.

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
Clime
Agreement
Agree
Trade
Age
Two
Every
Never

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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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Fair words cost nothing.
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Can love be controll'd by advice?
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No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who've no retreat.
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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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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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O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.
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The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
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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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She who has never lov'd, has never liv'd.
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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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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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Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
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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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Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
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Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.
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Learning by study must be won 'Twas ne'er entail'd from son to son.
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To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
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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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