John Gay

Over the hills and far away.

'T is woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.

Through all the Employments of Life Each Neighbour abuses his Brother; Whore and Rogue they call Husband and Wife: All Professions be-rogue one another: The Priest calls the Lawyer a Cheat, The Lawyer be-knaves the Divine:

As we live by the Muses, it is but a Gratitude in us to encourage Poetical Merit wherever we find it. The Muses, contrary to all other Ladies, pay no Distinction to Dress, and never partially mistake the Pertness of Embroidery for Wit, nor …

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 …

Give me, kind Heaven, a private station, A mind serene for contemplation: Title and profit I resign; The post of honour shall be mine.

By outward show let's not be cheated; An ass should like an ass be treated.

From wine what sudden friendship springs!

That raven on yon left-hand oak (Curse on his ill-betiding croak!) Bodes me no good.

While there is life there's hope, he cried.

Is there no hope? the sick man said; The silent doctor shook his head.

Lest men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view.

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.

And when a lady's in the case, You know all other things give place.

I hate the man who builds his name On 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.

Envy is a kind of praise.

Those who in quarrels intepose Must often wipe a bloody nose.

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

A Wolf eats sheep but now and then; Ten thousands are devour'd by men. An open foe may prove a curse, but a pretend friend is worse.

In beauty faults conspicuous grow; The smallest speck is seen on snow.

No author ever spar'd a brother.

When we risk no contradiction, It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.

Where yet was ever found a mother Who'd give her booby for another?

Whence thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?