Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. – William Congreve
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Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of em: wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father Time shake his glass. – William Congreve
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A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty. – William Congreve
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