Those who have homes, when home they do repair,

    To a last lodging call their wandering friends:

Their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care,

    To look how near their own destruction tends.

Those who have none, sit round where once it was,

    And with full eyes each wonted room require;

Haunting the yet warm ashes of the place,

    As murder’d men walk where they did expire.

— John Dryden, from “Annus Mirabilis”