William Congreve

William
Congreve
1670
1729

English Playwright, Dramatist and Poet

Author Quotes

Nature, to each allots his proper Sphere, But, that forsaken, we like Comets err Toss'd thro' the Void, by some rude Shock we're broke, And all our boasted Fire is lost in Smoke

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

They come together like the Coroner's Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.

Where modesty's ill manners, 'tis but fitThat impudence and malice pass for wit.

Never go to bed angry, stay up and fight.

Rise to meet him in a pretty disorder - yes- O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.

They could neither of them speak for rage, and so fell a-sputtering at one another like two roasting apples.

Who nothing has to lose, the war bewails; and he who nothing pay, at taxes rails.

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

Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.

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

Who pleases one against his will.

I nauseate walking 'tis a country diversion I loathe the country

No, I'm no enemy to learning; it hurts not me.

See how love and murder will out.

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

Whoever is king, is also the father of his country.

If I can find Cerebus a sop, I shall be at rest for one day.

Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.

Shallow artifice begets suspicion, and like a cobweb veil, but thinly shades the face of thy design, alone disguising what should have ne'er been seen, imperfect mischief.

Thou liar of the first magnitude.

Why, at this rate, a fellow that has but a groat in his pocket may have a stomach capable of a ten-shilling ordinary.

If there's delight in love, 'Tis when I see that heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.

O ay, letters - I had letters - I am persecuted with letters - I hate letters - nobody knows how to write letters and yet one has 'em, one does not know why - they serve one to pin up one's hair.

She is chaste who was never asked the question.

Author Picture
First Name
William
Last Name
Congreve
Birth Date
1670
Death Date
1729
Bio

English Playwright, Dramatist and Poet