William Congreve Quotes
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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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Love's but the frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined; A sickly flame, which if not fed expires; And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires.
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They are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
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She once used me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces; sifted her, and separated her failings; I studied 'em, and got 'em by rote. The catalogue was so large, that I was not without hopes, one day or other to hate her heartily.
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Thus in this sad, but oh, too pleasing state! my soul can fix upon nothing but thee; thee it contemplates, admires, adores, nay depends on, trusts on you alone.
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Would any thing but a madman complain of uncertainty? Uncertainty and expectation are joys of life; security is an insipid thing; and the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase.
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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
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A little scorn is alluring.
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There are times when sense may be unseasonable, as well as truth.
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Defer not till to-morrow to be wise, To-morrow's Sun to thee may never rise; Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy sight With her enlivening and unlook'd for light, How grateful will appear her dawning rays! As favours unexpected doubly please.
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If there's delight in love, 'Tis when I see that heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.
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Turn pimp, flatterer, quack, lawyer, parson, be chaplain to an atheist, or stallion to an old woman, anything but a poet; for a poet is worse, more servile, timorous and fawning than any I have named.
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Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of 'em: wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father Time shake his glass.
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Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
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O ay, letters - I had letters - I am persecuted with letters - I hate letters - nobody knows how to write letters; and yet one has 'em, one does not know why - they serve one to pin up one's hair.
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Guilt is ever at a loss, and confusion waits upon it; when innocence and bold truth are always ready for expression.
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There are come Critics so with Spleen diseased, They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal Skill, Who please one against his Will.
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A woman only obliges a man to secrecy, that she may have the pleasure of telling herself.
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Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
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I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.
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O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
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Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.
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I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials.