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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.

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
Show
Charge
Death
Lawyer
Shows
Debt
Take
Mets
Judging
Prepared
Ranged
Demand
Judges
Terrible
Lawyers

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The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
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Praising all alike, is praising none.
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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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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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Learning by study must be won 'Twas ne'er entail'd from son to son.
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No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who've no retreat.
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Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
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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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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 is the marigold, for pottage meet.
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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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Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
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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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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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She who has never lov'd, has never liv'd.
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Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?
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O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.
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Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.
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To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
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Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.
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