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May you live to be 100 and may the last voice you hear be mine. Francis Albert Sinatra		Saturday Apr 04, 2026
		Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969

About William Congreve

William Congreve

William Congreve

William Congreve (24 January 1670 - 19 January 1729) was an English playwright and poet.

Popular William Congreve Quotes

Heav'n hath no rage like love to hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.

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.

Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand.

It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.

Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, though the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase.

Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.

Retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.

Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.

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.

Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. By magic numbers and persuasive sound.

Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.

Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves em still two fools.

Loves but a frailty of the mind, When tis not with ambition joined.

Thou liar of the first magnitude.

O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.

I nauseate walking; tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.

For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, And though late, a sure reward succeeds.

O, she is the antidote to desire.

Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.

Every man plays the fool once in his life, but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long.

Poetry, the eldest sister of all arts, and parent of most.

I know that's a secret, for it's whispered everywhere.

Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.

A little disdain is not amiss; A little scorn is alluring.

See how love and murder will out.

No mask like open truth to cover lies, As to go naked is the best disguise.

Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure, Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.

Alack, he's gone the way of all flesh.

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

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