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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?
William Congreve
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William Congreve
Age: 58 †
Born: 1670
Born: January 24
Died: 1729
Died: January 19
Engineer
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
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Wherefore
Honourable
Discredit
Adultery
Root
Roots
Marriage
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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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I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
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There are times when sense may be unseasonable, as well as truth.
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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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All well bred persons lie - Besides, you are a woman you must never speak what you think.
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There is in true Beauty, as in Courage, somewhat which narrow Souls cannot dare to admire.
William Congreve
O, she is the antidote to desire.
William Congreve
Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
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I know that’s a secret, for it’s whispered everywhere.
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Love's but a frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined.
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Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
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Beauty is the lover's gift.
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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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I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
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Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
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I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.
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I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
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Hannibal was a very pretty fellow in those days.
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It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.
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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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