William Congreve Quotes on Love
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Ah! Whither, whither shall I fly, A poor unhappy Maid; To hopeless Love and Misery By my own Heart betray'd?
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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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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.
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Say what you will, tis better to be left than never to have been loved.
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Love's but a frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined.
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If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see That heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.
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O, she is the antidote to desire.