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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

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William Congreve
Age: 58 †
Born: 1670
Born: January 24
Died: 1729
Died: January 19
Engineer
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Writer
Chance
Rise
Doubly
Light
Thee
Morrow
May
Grateful
Favour
Never
Sun
Rays
Sight
Cheer
Enlivening
Tomorrow
Unexpected
Dawning
Please
Till
Defer
Wise
Appear
Favours

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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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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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All well bred persons lie - Besides, you are a woman you must never speak what you think.
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I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials.
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I nauseate walking 'tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.
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Beauty is the lover's gift.
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A hungry wolf at all the herd will run, In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.
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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.
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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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They come together like the Coroner's Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.
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Women like flames have a destroying power never to be quenched till they themselves devour.
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No mask like open truth to cover lies, As to go naked is the best disguise.
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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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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
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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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Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.
William Congreve
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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
William Congreve
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O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.
William Congreve
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Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand
William Congreve
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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.
William Congreve