William Congreve (1670 – 1729)
English playwright and poet.
Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.
Invention flags, his brain goes muddy,
And black despair succeeds brown study.
Ah! Whither, whither shall I fly,
A poor unhappy Maid;
To hopeless Love and Misery
By my own Heart betray’d?
Eternity was in that moment.
Love's but a frailty of the mind,
When 'tis not with ambition joined.
Let us be very strange and well-bred:
Let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while;
And as well-bred as if we were not married at all.
Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!
'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night
The silent Tomb receiv'd the good Old King;
He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg'd
Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.
Why am not I at Peace?
It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.
Retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.
O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds,
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
Say what you will, tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent
The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,
And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn'd;
Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.
Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.
I know that's a secret, for it's whispered every where.
If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
O, she is the antidote to desire.