After all, nature suffers as well. As a plant winds itself around, in its desperate reach for sunlight, it undergoes its own torments. We are not the only ones in the world.
“Let ’em censure: what care I?
The herd of critic I defy.
Let the wretches know, I write
Regardless of their grace, or spite.
No, no: the fair, the gay, the young
Govern the numbers of my song.
All that they approve is sweet:
And all is sense, that they repeat.”
Matthew Prior | “In Imitation of Anacreon”