“What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.”
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If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?
