The hay that so short a time ago was long, lush grass, with fragrant meadow-sweet and gold-eyed marguerites growing amongst it in the green meadow-land by the river, is now dry hay—fragrant still, though dead, and hidden from the sun’s warm ray... Read more of Arachne at Urban Myths.ca

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LORD BYRON notes: What a wreck is Sheridan! and all from bad pilotage;
for no one had ever better gales, though now and then a little squally.
Poor dear Sherry! I shall never forget the day he, and Rogers, and
Moore, and I passed together, when he talked and we listened, without
one yawn, from six to one in the morning.

One night, Sheridan was found in the street by a watchman, bereft of
that divine particle of air called reason, and fuddled, and
bewildered, and almost insensible. The watchman asked, Who are you,
sir? No answer. What's your name? A hiccup. What's your name?
Answer, in a slow, deliberate, and impassive tone, Wilberforce! Byron
notes: Is not that Sherry all over?--and, to my mind, excellent. Poor
fellow! his very dregs are better than the first sprightly runnings of
others.

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