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Women like flames have a destroying power never to be quenched till they themselves devour.

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
Women
Never
Like
Quenched
Devour
Flames
Destroying
Till
Power

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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
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I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
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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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'Tis well enough for a servant to be bred at an University. But the education is a little too pedantic for a gentleman.
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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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To find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his own eye, nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a very hard task.
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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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Some by experience find those words mis-placed: At leisure married, they repent in haste.
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Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
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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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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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Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.
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O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.
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Music alone with sudden charms can bind The wand'ring sense, and calm the troubled mind.
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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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Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
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A little scorn is alluring.
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A hungry wolf at all the herd will run, In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.
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O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
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I nauseate walking 'tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.
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