Reference > Quotations > John Bartlett, comp. > Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. > Page 294
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John Bartlett (1820–1905).  Familiar Quotations, 10th ed.  1919.
 
Page 294
 
 
Jonathan Swift. (1667–1745) (continued)
 
3180
    Sharp ’s the word with her.
          Polite Conversation. Dialogue iii.
3181
    There ’s two words to that bargain.
          Polite Conversation. Dialogue iii.
3182
    I shall be like that tree,—I shall die at the top.
          Scott’s Life of Swift. 1
 
William Congreve. (1670–1729)
 
3183
    Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
          The Mourning Bride. Act i. Sc. 1.
3184
    By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
          The Mourning Bride. Act i. Sc. 1.
3185
    Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. 2
          The Mourning Bride. Act iii. Sc. 8.
3186
    For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds,
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
          The Mourning Bride. Act v. Sc. 12.
3187
    If there ’s delight in love, ’t is when I see
That heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.
          The Way of the World, Act iii. Sc. 12.
3188
    Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude.
          Love for Love. Act ii. Sc. 5.
3189
    I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar. 3
          Love for Love. Act ii. Sc. 7.
 
Note 1.
When the poem of “Cadenus and Vanessa” was the general topic of conversation, some one said, “Surely that Vanessa must be an extraordinary woman that could inspire the Dean to write so finely upon her.” Mrs. Johnson smiled, and answered that “she thought that point not quite so clear; for it was well known the Dean could write finely upon a broomstick.”—Samuel Johnson: Life of Swift. [back]
Note 2.
We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman.—Colley Cibber: Love’s Last Shift, act iv. [back]
Note 3.
Born in a cellar, and living in a garret.—Samuel Foote: The Author, act 2.

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred.—Lord Byron: A Sketch. [back]
 

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