Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!
A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.

I shall attack Chemistry, like a Shark.

Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth,
And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.