John Gay Quotes
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No author ever spar'd a brother.
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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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The charge is prepar'd, the lawyers are met, The judges all ranged,-a terrible show!
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Macheath: And I would love you all the day, Polly: Every night would kiss and play, Macheath: If with me you’d fondly stray Polly: Over the hills and far away.
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'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.
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Were I laid on Greenland’s Coast, And in my Arms embrac’d my Lass; Warm amidst eternal Frost, Too soon the Half Year’s Night would pass.
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Envy is a kind of praise.
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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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If the heart of a man is depressed with cares, The mist is dispell'd when a woman appears; Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly Raises the spirits, and charms our ears.
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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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You base man you,—how can you look me in the face after what hath passed between us?—See here, perfidious wretch, how I am forc'd to bear about the load of infamy you have laid upon me— -O Macheath! thou hast robb'd me of my quiet—to see thee tortur'd would give me pleasure.
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There is no dependence that can be sure but a dependence upon one's self.
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Cowards are cruel, but the brave love mercy and delight to save.
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In beauty faults conspicuous grow;The smallest speck is seen on snow.
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Remote from cities liv'd a swain,Unvex'd with all the cares of gain;His head was silver'd o'er with age,And long experience made him sage.
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Whence thy learning? Hath thy toilO'er books consumed the midnight oil?
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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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Over the hills and far away.
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When we risk no contradiction,It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.
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On the choice of friends, Our good or evil name depends.