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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.

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
Always
Blushing
Breeding
Ill
Guilt
Sign
Either
Take

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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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No mask like open truth to cover lies, As to go naked is the best disguise.
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Women like flames have a destroying power never to be quenched till they themselves devour.
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But say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old.
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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, she is the antidote to desire.
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Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those days.
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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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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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Beauty is the lover's gift.
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Words are the weak support of cold indifference love has no language to be heard.
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No, I'm no enemy to learning it hurts not me.
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Some by experience find those words mis-placed: At leisure married, they repent in haste.
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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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Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, And black despair succeeds brown study.
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Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
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I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials.
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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.
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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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Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
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