If love at first sight were mutual, or to be conciliated by kind offices; if the fondest affection were not so often repaid and chilled by indifference and scorn; if so many lovers both before and since the madman in Don Quixote had not ‘worshipped a statue, hunted the wind, cried aloud to the desert;’ if friendship were lasting; if merit were renown, and renown were health, riches, and long life; or if the homage of the world were paid to conscious worth and the true aspirations after excellence, instead of its gaudy signs and outward trappings:—then indeed I might be of opinion that it is better to live to others than one’s-self: but as the case stands, I incline to the negative side of the question.[29]— ‘I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bow’d To its idolatries a patient knee— Nor coin’d my cheek to smiles—nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind which thus itself subdued. I have not loved the world, nor the world me— But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things—hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem— That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.’ Sweet verse embalms the spirit of sour misanthropy: but woe betide the ignoble prose-writer who should thus dare to compare notes with the world, or tax it roundly with imposture.