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Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast...

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
Savage
Savages
Breast
Breasts
Charm
Inspiration
Musick
Sooth
Charms

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How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all.
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Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
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Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.
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Whoever is king, is also the father of his country.
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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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A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty.
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Let us be very strange and well-bred:Let us be as strange as if we had been married a great whileAnd as well-bred as if we were not married at all.
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Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of his passion, but it very rarely mends a man's manners.
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Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read that things inanimate have moved, and, as with living souls, have been inform'd, by magic numbers and persuasive sound.
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Fear comes from uncertainty. When we are absolutely certain, whether of our worth or worthlessness, we are almost impervious to fear.
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In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me.
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It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.
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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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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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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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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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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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A hungry wolf at all the herd will run, In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.
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