John Gay Quotes
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You know, my Dear, I never meddle in matters of Death; I always leave those Affairs to you. Women indeed are bitter bad Judges in these cases, for they are so partial to the Brave that they think every Man handsome who is going to the Camp or the Gallows.
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If Poverty be a Title to Poetry, I am sure nobody can dispute mine. I own myself of the Company of Beggars; and I make one at their Weekly Festivals at St. Giles's. I have a small Yearly Salary for my Catches, and am welcome to a Dinner there whenever I please, which is more than most Poets can say.
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I must have women - there is nothing unbends the mind like them.
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The comfortable estate of widowhood is the only hope that keeps up a wife's spirits.
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We only part to meet again.
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In every age and clime we seeTwo of a trade can never agree.
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Those who in quarrels interpose, must often wipe a bloody nose.
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So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er,- The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.
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While there is life there 's hope, he cried.
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I don't enquire after your Affairs- -so whatever happens, I wash my hands on't-- It hath always been my Maxim, that one Friend should assist another- -But if you please--I'll take one of the Scarfs home with me. 'Tis always good to have something in Hand.
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But his kiss was so sweet, and so closely he pressed, that I languished and pined till I granted the rest.
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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? There are not many husbands and wives, who can bear the charges of plaguing one another in a handsome way.
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Before the Barn-Door crowing, The Cock by Hens attended, His Eyes around him throwing, Stands for a while suspended: Then One he singles from the Crew, And cheers the happy Hen; With how do you do, and how do you do, And how do you do again.
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I hate the man who builds his nameOn ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Imagine that they raise their own.Thus Scribblers, covetous of praise,Think slander can transplant the bays.
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That raven on yon left-hand oak(Curse on his ill-betiding croak!)Bodes me no good.
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Lest men suspect your tale untrue,Keep probability in view.
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And when a lady's in the case,You know all other things give place.
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How happy could I be with either, Were t' other dear charmer away!
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Love, then, hath every bliss in store; 'Tis friendship, and 'tis something more. Each other every wish they give; Not to know love is not to live.
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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.