I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that 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?
As soon Seek roses in December-ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or an other thing that's false, before You trust in critics, who themselves are sore.
Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)
Source: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 75.