Quote #4
Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.
More from William Congreve
- Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, And black despair succeeds brown study.
- 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.
- Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.
- I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
- 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.
- If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
- Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.