Colley Cibber Quotes

Thou strange piece of wild nature!

The happy have whole days, and those they choose. The unhappy have but hours, and those they lose.

Tea! Thou soft, thou sober, sage and venerable liquid ... to whose glorious insipidity, I owe the happiest moments of my life, let me fall prostrate.

Ah! good Sir! no Whores before Dinner, I beseech you." [Love's Last Shift]

Oh! How many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding-ring!

Tea! thou soft, thou sober, sage, and venerable liquid,... thou female tongue-running, smile-smoothing, heart-opening, wind-tippling cordial, to whose glorious insipidity I owe the happiest moment of my life, let me fall prostrate.

Colley Cibber, are apposite here: "It is not to the actor

Shamefully, Shiels was denied credit for the Lives; the publisher paid Theophilus Cibber, a disreputable playwright who was languishing in a debtors jail, ten guineas for the right to use his name. This was done in the hope that a gullible public would take the ‘Mr Cibber’ of the title page for Theophilus’s father, Colley Cibber, who was at that time Poet Laureate. The fraud became widely known, but Shiels reaped no benefit: he died of consumption on December 27 of that year.

It was possibly the worst of Mr Colley Cibber’s notoriously awful odes, the one, three years old, hymning King George’s personal valour on a German battlefield. Yes, here came the rhymes of ‘Seligenstadt’ with ‘defeat’, and ‘Dettingen’ with ‘joyful strain’. Here came the martial blasts from the Poet Laureate’s personal wind machine. Septimus was all wince. ‘Oh God,’ he murmured, through unmoving lips and closed teeth. ‘Oh God. Oh God.’ James De Lancey was feeling the need to clear his throat, rumblingly, every few seconds. The stares of the Assemblymen seemed fixed, if not on the spectacle in general, then in particular on the way the pose bunched and elevated, beneath the rising hem of the tabard, the muscles of Mrs Tomlinson’s magnificent arse.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends That is not paid with moan; For we are born in other’s pain, And perish in our own.’ Francis Thompson (‘Daisy’, 1913), 1859-1907 ‘Oh! how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring.’ Colley Cibber (The Double Gallant, 1707), 1671-1757

Wrrite, wrrite, Lapochka, why you don’t wrrite?” and assure me that a horse, even with four legs, stumbles. I found it difficult to explain to her what I was writing. “It’s about Colley Cibber,” I said. “He was an actor, playwright and poet.” “Also poet?” Varya asked suspiciously. “Who he? Pushkin?