E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.

We can't all do everything.

Let not our proposal be disregarded on the score of our youth.

A chaplet of leaves crowns the victor.

Fate will find a way.

From a single crime know the nation.

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