William Congreve

Heav'n hath no rage like love to hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.

Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected.

O, she is the antidote to desire.

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

Retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.

Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.

Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing, though the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase.

It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.

Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which , to admire, we should not understand.

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.