Quotes by William Congreve
Defer not till tomorrow to be wise,
Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.
Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
Ah! Whither, whither shall I fly,
A poor unhappy Maid;
To hopeless Love and Misery
By my own Heart betray'd?
Invention flags, his brain goes muddy,
And black despair succeeds brown study.
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