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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.

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
Use
Complaining
Every
Envy
Strength
Barr
Health
Ploughman
Wealth
Envies
Heard
Corporeal
Rich
Complain
Pain
Hath

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Fair words cost nothing.
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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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Gamesters and highwaymen are generally very good to their whores, but they are very devils to their wives.
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[Gulliver was soon being read] from the cabinet council to the nursery.
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Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
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Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.
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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 is the marigold, for pottage meet.
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Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.
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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 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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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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O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.
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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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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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Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother Wits are gamecocks to one another.
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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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