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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.
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
Skills
Diseased
Please
Scarcely
Sure
Pleased
Come
Mortal
Must
Skill
Mortals
Critics
Criticism
Spleen
More quotes by William Congreve
Would any thing but a madman complain of uncertainty? Uncertainty and expectation are joys of life security is an insipid thing and the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase.
William Congreve
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.
William Congreve
Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
William Congreve
Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast...
William Congreve
If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
William Congreve
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
Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those days.
William Congreve
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
Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
William Congreve
I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials.
William Congreve
It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.
William Congreve
A hungry wolf at all the herd will run, In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.
William Congreve
Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
William Congreve
Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves 'em still two fools.
William Congreve
Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.
William Congreve
I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
William Congreve
O ay, letters - I had letters - I am persecuted with letters - I hate letters - nobody knows how to write letters and yet one has 'em, one does not know why - they serve one to pin up one's hair.
William Congreve
No, I'm no enemy to learning it hurts not me.
William Congreve
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.
William Congreve
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