Congreve—­Lord Dorset.

The birthplace of Congreve is uncertain, but he was born about 1671, and was educated in Kilkenny and Dublin.  He is an instance of that union of Irish versatility with English reflection, which has produced the most celebrated wits.  We also mark in him a considerable improvement in delicacy.  “The Old Batchelor” was his first play, the success of which was so great that Lord Halifax made him one of the commissioners for licensing hackney-coaches; he afterwards gave him a place in the Pipe Office and Custom House.

Belmour begins very suitably by saying—­

     “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.”

Speaking of Belinda, he says—­

     “In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never
     speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anybody else to rail at me.”

Heartwell, an old bachelor, says—­

“Women’s asses bear great burdens; are forced to undergo dressing, dancing, singing, sighing, whining, rhyming, flattery, lying, grinning, cringing, and the drudgery of loving to boot....  Every man plays the fool once in his life, but to marry is to play the fool all one’s life long.”

In Belinda we have a specimen of one of the fast young ladies of the period, who certainly seems to have used strong language.  She cries,

     Oh, that most inhuman, barbarous, hackney-coach!  I am jolted to a
     jelly, am I not horridly touz’d?

She chides Belmour,

     Prithee hold thy tongue!  Lord! he has so pestered me with flowers
     and stuff, I think I shan’t endure the sight of a fire for a
     twelvemonth.

     Belmour. Yet all can’t melt that cruel frozen heart.

Bel. O, gad!  I hate your hideous fancy—­you said that once before—­if you must talk impertinently, for Heaven’s sake let it be with variety; don’t come always like the devil wrapped in flames.  I’ll not hear a sentence more that begins with, “I burn,” or an “I beseech you, Madam.”

At last she exclaims,

     “O! my conscience!  I could find in my heart to marry thee, purely
     to be rid of thee.”

There is frequently a conflict of wit.  Sharper tells Sir Joseph Willot that he lost many pounds, when he was defending him in a scuffle the night before.  He hopes he will repay him.

     Money is but dirt, Sir Joseph; mere dirt, Sir Joseph.

     Sir Joseph. But I profess ’tis a dirt I have washed my hands of
     at present.

Lord Froth in “The Double Dealer” says,

     There is nothing more unbecoming in a man of gravity than to laugh,
     to be pleased with what pleases the crowd.  When I laugh, I always
     laugh alone.