And mighty poets in their misery dead.

By our own spirits are we deified:We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

The miserable have no other medicine, But only hope.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to a grim and comfortless despair, And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?

No, misery makes sport to mock itself.