In sooth I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me, you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, where of it is born,
I am to learn.
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

-- Antonio, The Merchant Of Venice, William Shakespeare.


This melancholy is not unknown
To either you or me.
But yet knowledge of its origin
Continues to elude me.
I know not its constituents
There be no list of ingredients
And a blinking fool it renders me,
To my own eyes and consideration
But yet, to even myself, my own self
Remains, still, a mystery.

-- Ken Kant.