When a man is unhappy he writes damned bad poetry, I find. - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding place (Portentous-sight!) the owlet Atheism, Sailing an obscene wings athwart the noon, Drops his blue-fringèd lids, and holds them close, And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, Cries out, "Where is it?"

The anxiety to be admired is a loveless passion ... , loud on the hustings, gay in the ball-room, mute and sullen at the family fireside.

Truth I pursued,as Fancy sketch'd the way,
And wiser men than I went worse astray.