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I nauseate walking 'tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.

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
Diversion
Loathe
Walking
Country

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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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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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There is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than to laugh ... 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion!
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Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand
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Music alone with sudden charms can bind The wand'ring sense, and calm the troubled mind.
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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
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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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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.
William Congreve
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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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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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Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.
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Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
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Women like flames have a destroying power never to be quenched till they themselves devour.
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How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all.
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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
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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.
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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.
William Congreve
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Delay not till tomorrow to be wise tomorrow's sun to thee may neve rise.
William Congreve
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Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of 'em: wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father Time shake his glass.
William Congreve