Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon. - Lord Byron

Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again without stumbling.

Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

Love in full life and length, not love ideal,
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name,
But something better still, so very real...