"The flocks fear the wolf, the crops the storm, and the trees the wind."

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My thoughts hold mortal strife, I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries, Peace to my soul to bring, Oft calls that prince which here doth monarchize; But he, grim-grinning king, Who caitiffs scorns and doth the blest surprise, Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

— William Drummond