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Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, And black despair succeeds brown study.

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
Invention
Despair
Succeed
Goes
Study
Muddy
Brain
Succeeds
Black
Flags
Brown

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O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
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Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
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To converse with Scandal is to play at Losing Loadum, you must lose a good name to him, before you can win it for yourself.
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I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
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If happiness in self-content is placed, The wise are wretched, and fools only blessed.
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I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.
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O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.
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But say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old.
William Congreve
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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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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
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They come together like the Coroner's Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.
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Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.
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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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Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
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Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
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Words are the weak support of cold indifference love has no language to be heard.
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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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Delay not till tomorrow to be wise tomorrow's sun to thee may neve rise.
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No mask like open truth to cover lies, As to go naked is the best disguise.
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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
William Congreve