One no more owes one's beauty to a lover than one's wit to an echo - William Congreve

Additional quotes by William Congreve

For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds,
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.

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Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude.

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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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