There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
In solitude, where we are least alone.
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.