97 ordspråk av William Congreve
William Congreve
I could find it in my heart to marry thee, purely to be rid of thee.
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I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
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I hope you do not think me prone to an iteration of nuptials.
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I know that's a secret, for it's whispered everywhere
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I nauseate walking; 'tis a country diversion; I loathe the country
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If I have not fretted myself till I am pale again, there's no veracity in me.
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If I marry, Sir Sampson, I'm for a good estate with any man, and for any man with a good estate.
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If there's delight in love, 'tis when I see That heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me
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If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
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In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past.
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In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me
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Invention flags, his brain goes muddy, and black despair succeeds brown study.
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Is he then dead? / What, dead at last, quite, quite for ever dead!
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Let us be very strange and well-bred: Let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while; and as well-bred as if we were not married at all.
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Love yourself, for if you don't, how can you expect anybody else to love you?
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