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When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte, As every child can tell, The House of Peers, throughout the war, Did nothing in particular, And did it very well

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
Children
Child
Every
War
House
Thrashed
Tell
Wellington
Government
Bonaparte
Wells
Peers
Well
Throughout
Nothing
Particular

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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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Merely corroborative detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.
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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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Let the punishment fit the crime.
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I accept refreshment at any hands, however lowly.
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I'm really very sorry for you all, but it's an unjust world, and virtue is triumphant only in theatrical performances.
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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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Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, An attachment a la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean!
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Utopia's quite another land In her enterprising movements, She is England--with improvements
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My family pride is something inconceivable. I can't help it. I was born sneering.
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Bind up their wounds - but look the other way.
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To sit in solemn silence on a dull, dark dock in a pestilential prison with a life-long lock awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock from a cheap and chippy chopper on a big, black block.
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I've an irritating chuckle, I've a celebrated sneer, I've an entertaining snigger, I've a fascinating leer To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two I can tell a woman's age in half a minute--and I do
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Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of Space, Roll on!
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Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon, If you listen to popular rumour From morning to night he's so joyous and bright, And he bubbles with wit and good humour!
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every Jack He must study the knack If he wants to make sure of his Jill!
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Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses, Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.
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In short, whoever you may be, To this conclusion you'll agree, When every one is somebodee, Then no one's anybody!
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A man is but an ass Who fights in a cuirass
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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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