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To converse with Scandal is to play at Losing Loadum, you must lose a good name to him, before you can win it for yourself.

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
Good
Losing
Lose
Loses
Name
Names
Winning
Converse
Play
Converses
Must
Scandal

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Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those days.
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Marriage is honourable, as you say and if so, wherefore should Cuckoldom be a Discredit, being deriv'd from so honourable a Root?
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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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O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
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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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All well bred persons lie - Besides, you are a woman you must never speak what you think.
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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
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I am always of the opinion with the learned, if they speak first.
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Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.
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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.
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Beauty is the lover's gift.
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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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I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials.
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Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.
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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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Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.
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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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Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
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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