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 ROTHER, across the sea I send you greeting, I, standing here in calm that is not peace, Bound to respect these pigmies at my feet, Do envy you the power to maim and slay, To thrust aside these fretting human things That call themselves our masters, and are vile. Was ever yet a stone that told a lie ? A rock that did betray his nearest friend ? A stream that smiled towards the loathsome dark ? A wind that turned itself i' the hand of God, And smote where He was blessing ? Thus do men.

'Tis true, the race is feeble, strangely weak, Shifting as stormy breezes, varying oft, And worn to death with just a moment's life. But all frail things have some peculiar strength, And man is strong in loving.