For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.

All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

This is the age of oddities let loose.