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 — William Congreve Copy Share Image
Mr Witwould: "Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies." Mrs Millamant: "Only with… — William Congreve Copy Share
He who closes his ears to the views of others shows little confidence in the integrity of his own views. — William Congreve Copy Share
Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, through the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly… — William Congreve Copy Share
I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections. — William Congreve Copy Share
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 Copy Share
A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty. — William Congreve Copy Share
They are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom. — William Congreve Copy Share
There is in true Beauty, as in Courage, somewhat which narrow Souls cannot dare to admire. — William Congreve Copy Share
I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit. — William Congreve Copy Share
There is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than to laugh ... 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion! — William Congreve Copy Share
Honor is a public enemy, and conscience a domestic, and he that would secure his pleasure, must pay a tribute to one and go… — William Congreve Copy Share
“True, 'tis an unhappy circumstance of life that love should ever die before us, and that the man so often should outlive the lover.… — William Congreve Copy Share
Believe it, Men have ever been the same, And all the Golden Age is but a Dream. — William Congreve Copy Share
She likes herself, yet others hates, For that which in herself she prizes; And while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing… — William Congreve Copy Share
