The ancients referred melancholy to the mind, the moderns make it matter of digestion—to either case my plan applies, said Lady Mandeville.

Prospero: I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art; naught knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, And thy no greater father.

1805 The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Sir Walter Scott.

[T]o feed 126 souls, we had but . . . Three ham-sandwiches, and a pot of currant-jelly, and 197 bottles of brandy, rum, madeira, pale ale (my private stock) . . .