For Poesy! no, she has not a joy,
At least for me, so sweet as drowsy noons,
And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
That I may never know how change the moons,
Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
Brooks Brothers was established in 1818 and in the following year, John Keats came out with his disgusting Ode on Indolence. I see this cause and effect, right away, now that my mind has been bathed clean in the investigative methodology of Pat Robertson's academy; and soon we entered the depraved Age of Jackson, whence, need I say, all golly heck broke loose and our gummint in Washington has been a fornicators' tyranny ever since, which began with his unconstitutional assertion of national control over our currency, itself an obscene publication,
from the sacred entrepreneurship of Nick Biddle, who was not really that snooty, all because this fancy kind of boy was drowsying in bed and, as you can always tell with that kind, far from alone, it hurts my soul to report, or what was all that honey about, I would like to know, because the Lord calls upon his pure and shining servants to be brave in these matters and unashamed to jive about our beliefs and intentions, so we can hold office in this sinful world, and let good people do what has to be done about these honeyboys.
I take it, mon cher Auguste, that on the discovery of this manifesto, his defense was to call it, spurious?
Mais non, Hercule. He confided that these had been his beliefs, in the infancy of his recent 30s, but in the alternative, like the late Chancellor assuring Hindenberg of his gentleness in the use of emergency powers, promised to be benign, admitting that he does so need to exercise power over others, that he trusted he could be excused an endeavour to be popular.
John Keats
Ode on Indolence
fragment
1819
i, iii, iv, v Thibault Oberlin
Sometimes the balloon does not go up, sometimes it goes where one least expects - except that misdirection is to be expected. One can take the elaboratest precautions to defy the fact, without changing it: one is not the balloon. I deny that the play is ill judged, and I know better than to deny tears. One can manipulate ballast, jettison things, adjust the inflation; one can exercise a good deal of control, or less, which is only harder; but when the mooring is lifted, publication is a balloon. I like it when the balloon goes up, and when it does not, there can be suffering, but no regret. I am a balloonist.
Beyond any doubt, he is a cultivated master of his craft, but his passion is to suspend all of that in the pursuit (I beg you to believe) of surfable waves, a species of ballooning known for saltier countenances than our aerialism allows. He writes to me, that the season at his favourite marine haunt is somewhat tepid this year, that they have had years of finer waves - vintages, can you stand it, pretty much exactly as Virgil said; but the company has been marvelous. This is our tendency. If you will the risk, to be tumbled or stolen aloft, you will the company; and sometimes, you must be. 
