Music hath charms to sooth a savage breast.
William CongreveMostra la citazione in tedesco
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A little scorn is alluring.
William CongreveMostra la citazione in tedesco
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Heav'n hath no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.
Of those few fools, who with ill stars are curst,
Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst:
For they're a sort of fools which fortune makes,
And, after she has made them fools, forsakes.
With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a different case,
For Fortune favours all her idiot race.
In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find,
Over which she broods to hatch the changeling kind:
No portion for her own she has to spare,
So much she dotes on her adopted care.
Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in,
Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win:
But what unequal hazards do they run!
Each time they write they venture all they've won:
The Squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone.
This author, heretofore, has found your favour,
But pleads no merit from his past behaviour.
To build on that might prove a vain presumption,
Should grant to poets made admit resumption,
And in Parnassus he must lose his seat,
If that be found a forfeited estate.
I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.
William CongreveMusic hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
William CongreveBut say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old.
William CongreveWomen are like tricks by sleight of hand,
Which, to admire, we should not understand
If there's delight in love, 'Tis when I see that heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.
William CongreveTag: love
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.
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