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Beauty is the lover's gift.

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
Lover
Lovers
Gift
Beauty

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There is in true Beauty, as in Courage, somewhat which narrow Souls cannot dare to admire.
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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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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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Mr Witwould: Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies. Mrs Millamant: Only with those in verse.... I never pin up my hair with prose.
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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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Women like flames have a destroying power never to be quenched till they themselves devour.
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Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
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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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Some by experience find those words mis-placed: At leisure married, they repent in haste.
William Congreve
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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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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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Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, And black despair succeeds brown study.
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Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.
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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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Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.
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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
William Congreve
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If happiness in self-content is placed, The wise are wretched, and fools only blessed.
William Congreve
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She likes herself, yet others hates, For that which in herself she prizes And while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.
William Congreve
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Who pleases one against his will.
William Congreve
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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.
William Congreve