“What thy soul holds dear, imagine it to lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou com’st: suppose the singing-birds musicians, the grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strew’d, the flowers fair ladies, and they steps no more than a delightful measure or a dance; for gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite the man that mocks at it and sets it light.” – William Shakespeare, The Life and Death of King Richard II 1.3