I bet you didn't know that.
It crops up in the utterly turgid and dull poem Prince Athanase. I have read it, dear reader, so that you don't have to. Basically, there's a prince and he's great and stuff, but like every second bloody romantic hero he's mysteriously sad. Nobody knows why.
Some said that he was mad, others believed
That memories of an antenatal life
Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell
Others believed that Shelley had talent, but needed a damned fine editor.
I remember that.
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