John Gay (1685 – 1732)
English poet and dramatist.
So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er,—
The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.
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.
In beauty faults conspicuous grow;
The smallest speck is seen on snow.
How the mother is to be pitied who hath handsome daughters! Locks, bolts, bars, and lectures of morality are nothing to them: they break through them all. They have as much pleasure in cheating a father and mother, as in cheating at cards.
No author ever spar'd a brother.
Do you think your Mother and I should have liv'd comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married?
Give me, kind Heaven, a private station,
A mind serene for contemplation:
Title and profit I resign;
The post of honour shall be mine.
That raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak!)
Bodes me no good.
No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who’ve no retreat.
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.
Adieu, she cried, and waved her lily hand.
While there is life there 's hope, he cried.