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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.

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
Cellar
Cellars
Upstairs
Stairs
Came
Born
World

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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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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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If happiness in self-content is placed, The wise are wretched, and fools only blessed.
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I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials.
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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
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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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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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O, she is the antidote to desire.
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O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
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If there's delight in love, 'Tis when I see that heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.
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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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I am a fool, I know it and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.
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No, I'm no enemy to learning it hurts not me.
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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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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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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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Whoever is king, is also the father of his country.
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These articles subscribed, if I continue to endure you a little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into wife.
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O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.
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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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