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Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves 'em still two fools.

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
Men
Fool
Marriage
Wife
Though
Makes
Ems
Two
Fools
Stills
Leaves
Still
Flesh

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Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
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Some by experience find those words mis-placed: At leisure married, they repent in haste.
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How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all.
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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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Whoever is king, is also the father of his country.
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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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I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.
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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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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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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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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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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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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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A woman only obliges a man to secrecy, that she may have the pleasure of telling herself.
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Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.
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Words are the weak support of cold indifference love has no language to be heard.
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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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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.
William Congreve
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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.
William Congreve
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No mask like open truth to cover lies, As to go naked is the best disguise.
William Congreve