Though arms be lacking, wiles be none,
Still is the will of fortune done:
By force of his own greatness falls the king.
'Tis ever thus: the bellying sail90
Fears the o'erstrong though favoring gale;
The tower feels rainy Auster's dread
If to the clouds it rear its head;
Huge oaks most feel the whirlwind's lash;95
High mountains most with thunder crash;
And while the common herd in safety feeds,