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I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.

William Congreve

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William Congreve
Age: 58 †
Born: 1670
Born: January 24
Died: 1729
Died: January 19
Engineer
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Writer
Looks
Monkeys
Long
Freely
Never
Reflection
Evolution
Upon
Mortifying
Science
Reflections
Look
Monkey
Without
Confess

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Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
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Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand
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I nauseate walking 'tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.
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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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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials.
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There are times when sense may be unseasonable, as well as truth.
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If happiness in self-content is placed, The wise are wretched, and fools only blessed.
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Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast...
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Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.
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She likes herself, yet others hates, For that which in herself she prizes And while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.
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Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.
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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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Marriage is honourable, as you say and if so, wherefore should Cuckoldom be a Discredit, being deriv'd from so honourable a Root?
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Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, And black despair succeeds brown study.
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A little scorn is alluring.
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Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves 'em still two fools.
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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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