“By chance a reverend oak was near the place, Sacred to Jove, and of Dodona’s race, Where frugal ants laid up their winter meat, Whose little bodies bear a mighty weight: We saw them march along, and hide their store, And much admired their number and their power; Admired at first, but after envied more. Full of amazement, thus to Jove I pray’d: ‘O grant, since thus my subjects are decay’d, As many subjects to supply the dead.’ I pray’d, and strange convulsions moved the oak, Which murmur’d, though by ambient winds unshook: My trembling hands and stiff-erected hair Express’d all tokens of uncommon fear; Yet both the earth and sacred oak I kiss’d, And scarce could hope, yet still I hoped the best; For wretches, whatsoe’er the Fates divine, Expound all omens to their own design.