The elements mingle in a loud confusion,
The maddened seas batten the ruined lands,
The forests shed their knotted limbs, the year
Be now all mad November. I am but
A wasted trunk whereon no brutish fate
Can wreck its malice. I am so annulled
Were all the devils of hell carnated popes,
Thundering anathemas on my stricken head,
T’would not appal me. I am come to this.