William Congreve (playwright)

William Congreve (January 24, 1670 – January 19, 1729) was an English playwright and poet.

Fame from his play The Mourning Bride

Two of Congreve's turns of phrase have entered the English language.

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"Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast"

ACT I. SCENE I. begins with these words:

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A Room of State. -

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The Curtain rising slowly to soft Musick, discovers ALMERIA in Mourning, LEONORA waiting in Mourning. -

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After the Musick ALMERIA rises from her Chair, and comes forward.

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ALM. Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,

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To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.

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I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,

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And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,

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By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.

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What then am I? Am I more senseless grown

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Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!

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'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

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Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night

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The silent Tomb receiv'd the good Old King;

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He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg'd

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Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.

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Why am not I at Peace?" http://www.4literature.net/William_Congreve/Mourning_Bride/2.html

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"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned"

Act 3, Scene 2 ends with these words:

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ZARA. Thou shalt die.

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OSM. I thank you.

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ZARA. Thou ly'st; for now I know for whom thou'dst live.

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OSM. Then you may know for whom I'd die.

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ZARA. Hell! Hell!

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Yet I'll be calm- Dark and unknown Betrayer!

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But now the Dawn begins, and the slow Hand

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Of Fate is stretch'd to draw the Veil, and leave

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Thee bare, the naked Mark of Publick View.

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OSM. You may be still deceiv'd; 'tis in my Pow'r.

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ZARA. Ha!

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Who waits there? -

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Enter PEREZ. -

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As you'll answer it, take heed

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This Slave commit no Violence upon

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Himself. I've been deceiv'd. The Publick Safety

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Requires he should be more confin'd; and none,

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No not the Princes self, permitted to

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Confer with him. I'll quit you to the King.

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Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent

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The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:

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Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,

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And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn'd;

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Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,

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Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd. http://www.farid-hajji.net/books/en/Congreve_William/mb-b3c02.html

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