A snooty snob who enjoys the tawdry

I opened my old college textbook The Literature of England at random yesterday morning and found This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison, Samuel Taylor Coleridges poem composed in his garden under a lime tree while his visiting friends took a walk in the nearby countryside. He had to stay behind, having been sidelined when his wife accidentally spilled boiling milk on his foot. (Ow-ow-ow!)

Before that, I took a brief stab at Troilus and Criseyde, and what a surprise, 45-plus years of not reading...