Quote

If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack, You may get a bland smile from these sages But should it, by chance, be imported from France, Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!

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
Smile
Crack
Chance
Sage
Half
Crowns
Jests
May
Wages
Imported
Cracks
Sages
Orthodox
Bland
Stopped
Smack
France
Crown

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Posterity will know as little of me as I know of posterity.
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Merely corroborative detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.
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I am a child of Nature, and take after my mother.
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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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After many unhappy experiments in the direction of an ideal Republic, it was found that what may be described as a Despotism tempered by Dynamite provides, on the whole, the most satisfactory description of ruler - an autocrat who dares not abuse his autocratic power.
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All bayonets are bad.
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Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens Like them an Earl of Thackeray and p'raps a Duke of Dickens
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Faint heart never won fair lady! Nothing venture, nothing win Blood is thick, but water's thin In for a penny, in for a pound It's Love that makes the world go 'round!
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Life is a joke that's just begun.
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As is gloriously sung in the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta H.M.S. Pinafore, in the words of W. S. Gilbert: Things are seldom as they seem, Skim milk masquerades as cream.
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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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My family pride is something inconceivable. I can't help it. I was born sneering.
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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!
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Oh, wouldn't the world seem dull and flat with nothing whatever to grumble at?
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Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to grumble at!
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Saturday afternoon, although occurring at regular and well-foreseen intervals, always takes this railway by surprise.
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I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind
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Utopia's quite another land In her enterprising movements, She is England--with improvements
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Spurn not the nobly born with love affected nor treat with virtuous scorn the well connected.
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Bind up their wounds - but look the other way.
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