Or, I was feeling silly this afternoon, and had some thoughts on the subject.
First off, Wordsworth and Coleridge are out of the running completely, because I can’t imagine having sexual thoughts about either of them. Which leaves, out of the major figures, Byron and Shelley and Keats.
Looked at that way, it’s obvious.
Cliff Shelley. Shag Byron (“mad, bad, and dangerous to know” is pretty much the textbook description of your classic Jazzy Weekend.) Marry Keats, and get him some good 21st century medicine to take care of that consumption thing.
Others’ mileage may vary.