Quote

Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest: Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers: Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest, And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!

W. S. Gilbert

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W. S. Gilbert
Age: 74 †
Born: 1836
Born: November 18
Died: 1911
Died: May 29
Dramatist
Illustrator
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Theatrical Director
Writer
London
England
Sir William Schwenck Gilbert
William Schwenck Gilbert
William S. Gilbert
William Schwenk Gilbert
Bab
Bab Gilbert
William Gilbert
Like
Nightmare
Robs
Memorable
Unrequited
Heavy
Slumber
Lies
Ardent
Rest
Chest
Lying
Chests
Soul
Midnight
Slumbers
Love
Hopeless
Weaves

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Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes! Bow, bow, ye tradesmen, bow, ye masses!
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I am a courtier grave and serious Who is about to kiss your hand: Try to combine a pose imperious With a demeanour nobly bland.
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It's true I've got no shirts to wear It's true my butcher's bill is due It's true my prospects all look blue - But don't let that unsettle you.
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I see no objection to stoutness, in moderation.
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Is life a boon? If so, it must befall That Death, whene'er he call, Must call too soon.
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My family pride is something inconceivable. I can't help it. I was born sneering.
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For duty, duty must be done The rule applies to everyone.
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Oh, wouldn't the world seem dull and flat with nothing whatever to grumble at?
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Life is a joke that's just begun.
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When a felon s not engaged in his employment, Or maturing his felonious little plans, His capacity for innocent enjoyment Is just as great as any honest mans.
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He led his regiment from behind. He found it less exciting.
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When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
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I love my fellow creatures - I do all the good I can - yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!
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The Law is the true embodiment of everything that's excellent it has no kind of fault or flaw and I, my Lords, embody the Law.
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When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling And listen to the merry village chime.
W. S. Gilbert
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All bayonets are bad.
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every Jack He must study the knack If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
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Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancybrig, And a bos'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!
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Strike the concertina's melancholy string! Blow the spirit-stirring harp like any thing! Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past
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The idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, All centuries but this, and every country but his own.
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