109 quotes
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
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.
My Lodging Is on the Cold Ground (1720)
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou, perhaps, carniv'rous sinner,
Hadst pullets yesterday for dinner!
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.
Fables (1727)
To friendship every burden's light.
No author ever spar'd a brother.
Fables (1727)
O happy unown'd youths! your limbs can bear
The scorching dog-star and the winter's air,
While the rich infant, nurs'd with care and pain,
Thirsts with each heat and coughs with every rain!
Envy is a kind of praise.
Fables (1727)
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.
The Beggar's Opera (1728)
Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod.
Thus shadow owes its birth to light.
For he was studious—of his ease.
Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon'd round,
And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown'd?
No; the dead know it not, nor profit gain;
It only serves to prove the living vain.
How many saucy airs we meet,
From Temple Bar to Aldgate Street!
Man may escape from Rope and Gun;
Nay, some have out liv'd the Doctor's Pill;
Who takes a Woman must be undone,
That Basilisk is sure to kill.
All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd.
Over the hills and far away.
The Beggar's Opera (1728)
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.
Fables (1727)
Man may escape from rope and gun;
Nay, some have outlived the doctor's pill:
Who takes a woman must be undone,
That basilisk is sure to kill.
The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets,
So he that tastes woman, woman, woman,
He that tastes woman, ruin meets.
The Beggar's Opera (1728)
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.
The Beggar's Opera (1728)