What exile from himself can flee?
To zones though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where’er I be,
The blight of life,—the demon Thought.—Childe Harold.
Patriæ quis exul se quoque fugit?—Horace: Ode to Grosphus.
Vide also Epist. XI. 28.
To-morrow for the Moon we depart,
But not to-night,—to-night is for the heart.—Byron: The Island.
Nunc vino pellite curas;