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?
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it?-No! 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)
Source: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 22.