He Was A Man Of His Times.

My Slumbers--if I Slumber--are Not Sleep, But A Continuance Of Enduring Thought, Which Then I Can Resist Not: In My Heart There Is A Vigil, And These Eyes But Close To Look Within; And Yet I Live, And Bear The Aspect And The Form Of Breathing Men.

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

I Learned To Love Despair.

In England The Only Homage Which They Pay To Virtue - Is Hypocrisy.

This Quiet Sail Is As A Noiseless Wing To Waft Me From Distraction.