Laughter and a shrug are the end of it. With the Carolines it was not
music that was the food of love, but love that was a staple food
of music. A man who lets his hair down over his shoulders may be as
sentimental as you please, or as impudent. He cannot nourish both a
passion and a head of hair. He won't have time.

There, then, again, is a clear congruity established between your
versifying and your clothes; they will both be in the mode, and the
mode the same. One feels about the Cavalier fashion that it was
not serious either one way or the other. It had not the Elizabethan
swagger; it had not the Restoration cynicism; it had not the Augustan
urbanity. Go back now to the Elizabethan, and avoiding Shakespeare as
a law unto himself, which is the right of genius--for the sonnets
have wit as well as passion (but a mordant wit), everything that real
love-poetry must have, and much that no poetry but Shakespeare's could
possibly survive--avoiding Shakespeare, I say, take two snatches in
order. Take first--

Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,
For all those rosy ornaments in thee,--
Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,
Nor fair nor sweet--unless thou pity me!

That first; and then this:

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain--