George Farquhar

Observe this, that tho' a woman swear, forswear, lie, dissemble, back-bite, be proud, vain, malicious, anything, if she secures the main chance, she's still virtuous; that's a maxim.

We love the precepts for the teacher's sake.

Our 'prentice, Tom, may now refuse to wipe his scroundrel master's shoes; for now he's free to sing and play over the hills and far away.

When the blind lead the blind, no wonder they both fall into - matrimony.

Our sex still strikes an awe upon the brave, and only cowards dare affront a woman.

Which none but mad-men know.

Over the hills, and over the main, to Flanders, Portugal, or Spain; the Queen commands, and we'll obey, over the hills and far away.

Women are like pictures: of no value in the hands of a fool till he hears men of sense bid high for the purchase.

Poetry is a mere drug, Sir.

Seduced me first to me a wicked player.

Since a woman must wear chains, I would have the pleasure of hearing 'em rattle a little.

Spare all I have, and take my life.

The shortest pleasures are the sweetest.

There's a pleasure sure, in being mad, which none but mad-men know.

I have fed purely upon ale; I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale.

There's no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful as poverty.

I see you have a singing face--a heavy, dull, sonata face.

'Tis a question whether adversity or prosperity makes the most poets.

It is a maxim that man and wife should never have it in their power to hang one another.

'Tis a strange thing, Sam, that among us people can't agree the whole week, because they go different ways upon Sundays.

Kiss and be friends.

'Tis the greatest misfortune in nature for a woman to want a confidant.

Like hungry guests, a sitting audience looks; plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks. The founder's you: the table is the place: the carvers we: the prologue is the grace. Each act, a course, each scene, a different dish, though we're in lent, i doubt you're still for flesh. Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp and rough. Kind masks and beaux, i hope you're pepperproof? Wit is the wine; but 'tis so scarce the true poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew. Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed join. Are butcher's meat, a battle's sirloin: your scenes of love, so flowing, soft and chaste, are water-gruel without salt or taste.

'Twas for the good of my country that I should be abroad. Anything for the good of one's country--I'm a Roman for that.

Money is the sinews of love, as of war.