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Some by experience find those words mis-placed: At leisure married, they repent in haste.

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
Placed
Leisure
Married
Words
Experience
Find
Haste
Repent

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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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I am a fool, I know it and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.
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All well bred persons lie - Besides, you are a woman you must never speak what you think.
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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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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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I know that’s a secret, for it’s whispered everywhere.
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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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Music alone with sudden charms can bind The wand'ring sense, and calm the troubled mind.
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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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O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
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There is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than to laugh ... 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion!
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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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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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Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.
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O, she is the antidote to desire.
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Words are the weak support of cold indifference love has no language to be heard.
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Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves 'em still two fools.
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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.
William Congreve
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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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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.
William Congreve