William Congreve

There are times when sense may be unseasonable, as well as truth.

To refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old.

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

A woman only obliges a man to secrecy, that she may have the pleasure of telling herself.

Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of his passion, but it very rarely mends a man’s manners.

Words are the weak support of cold indifference; love has no language to be heard.

If there’s delight in love, 'tis when I see / That heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.

Guilt is ever at a loss, and confusion waits upon it; when innocence and bold truth are always ready for expression.

One minute gives invention to destroy; / What to rebuild, will a whole age employ.

If happiness in self-content is placed, / The wise are wretched, and fools only blessed.

There is in true beauty, as in courage, somewhat which narrow souls cannot dare to admire.

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

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

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

Men are apt to offend (‘tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.

I came upstairs into the world; for I was born in a cellar.

He that first cries out "Stop thief!", is often he that has stolen the treasure.

I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.

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

These articles subscribed, if I continue to endure you a little longer, I may by degrees dwindle into a wife.

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

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

Music has charms to sooth a savage breast.

Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned,

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.

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

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