Quotes by William Congreve
Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
Defer not till tomorrow to be wise,
Tomorrow's sun to thee may never rise.
Invention flags, his brain goes muddy,
And black despair succeeds brown study.
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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