Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

Despair and Genius are too oft connected

So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.

I learned to love despair.

What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?

Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.

Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.