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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
Ill
Guilt
Sign
Either
Take
Always
Blushing
Breeding

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How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all.
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O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
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O, she is the antidote to desire.
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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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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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Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
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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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Delay not till tomorrow to be wise tomorrow's sun to thee may neve rise.
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Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.
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Beauty is the lover's gift.
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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.
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Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
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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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O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.
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I know that’s a secret, for it’s whispered everywhere.
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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
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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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Some by experience find those words mis-placed: At leisure married, they repent in haste.
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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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