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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.

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
Self
Consuming
Mind
Flame
Love
Feds
Expires
Feeding
Sickly
Flames
Wastes
Ambition
Frailty
Waste
Fires
Fire
Joined

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He that first cries out stop thief, is often he that has stolen the treasure.
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Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
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I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
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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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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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Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand
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How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all.
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Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of his passion, but it very rarely mends a man's manners.
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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
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I know a lady that loves to talk so incessantly, she won't give an echo fair play she has that everlasting rotation of tongue that an echo must wait till she dies before it can catch her last words!
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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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O, she is the antidote to desire.
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Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.
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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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These articles subscribed, if I continue to endure you a little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into wife.
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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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In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me.
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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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Whoever is king, is also the father of his country.
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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
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