It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry compilations of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humourous sadness.
-Wm. Shakespeare, "As You Like It"; IV, i, 16.
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We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Little Gidding V,
Four Quartets.
-- T.S. Eliot (1943)
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