Colley Cibber (1671 – 1757)
English actor, playwright, Poet Laureate, first British actor-manager, and head Dunce of Alexander Pope's Dunciad.
Tea! Thou soft, thou sober, sage, and venerable liquid, thou innocent pretence for bringing the wicked of both sexes together in a morning; thou female tongue-running, smile-smoothing, heart- opening, wink-tipping cordial, to whose glorious insipidity I owe the happiest moment of my life, let me fall prostrate thus, and ... adore thee.
Oh, how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring!
Losers must have leave to speak.
Off with his head—; so much for Buckingham.
As good be out of the world as out of the fashion.
Words are but empty thanks.
We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman,—scorned, slighted, dismissed without a parting pang.
Now, by St. Paul, the work goes bravely on.
A weak invention of the enemy.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy.
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!
Persuasion tips his tongue whene'er he talks,
And he has chambers in King's Bench walks.
So mourn'd the dame of Ephesus her love,
And thus the soldier arm'd with resolution
Told his soft tale, and was a thriving wooer.
Our hours in love have wings; in absence, crutches.
I 've lately had two spiders
Crawling upon my startled hopes.
Now though thy friendly hand has brush'd 'em from me,
Yet still they crawl offensive to my eyes:
I would have some kind friend to tread upon 'em.
Prithee don’t screw your wit beyond the compass of good manners.
And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay
Gives it a sweet and wholesome odour.
With clink of hammers closing rivets up.