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.
— William Congreve
Fear comes from uncertainty. When we are absolutely certain, whether of our worth or worthlessness, we are almost impervious to fear.
I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.
Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.
Beauty is the lover's gift.
I know that's a secret, for it's whispered everywhere.
Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
Grief walks upon the heels of pleasure; married in haste, we repent at leisure.
I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
You are a woman: you must never speak what you think; your words must contradict your thoughts, but your actions may contradict your words.
To find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his own eye, nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a very hard task.
There is in true beauty, as in courage, something which narrow souls cannot dare to admire.
A little disdain is not amiss; a little scorn is alluring.
No, I'm no enemy to learning; it hurts not me.
Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
If there's delight in love, 'Tis when I see that heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.
'Tis well enough for a servant to be bred at an University. But the education is a little too pedantic for a gentleman.
They are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
Never go to bed angry, stay up and fight.
Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of 'em: wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father Time shake his glass.
He who closes his ears to the views of others shows little confidence in the integrity of his own views.
A hungry wolf at all the herd will run, In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.
A wit should be no more sincere than a woman constant.
Wit must be foiled by wit: cut a diamond with a diamond.
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.
Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, and black despair succeeds brown study.
They come together like the Coroner's Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.
If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
