"But most of all I shall remember the monarchs, that unhurried westward drift of one small winged form after another, each drawn by some invisible force."

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Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown; For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself; And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.

— William Shakespeare