An oak got talking with a reed one day: "You certainly have cause to complain of nature; why, even a sparrow's weight is quite a strain for you. At the slightest breeze that makes the ripples play, you quake as if touched with blight; you bend and bow so desolate, indeed you are a sorry sight."
"Now I, like the Caucasus in all its pride and state, think little of the rage of Phoebus; I laugh at hurricanes and stand at ease beneath thunder's roar. I stand as strong and straight as though I bore a shield of peace inviolate. For you, each breath is a storm; for me, the storm is but a breeze. If only you were growing close by, in the shade of my broad boughs, I could easily defend you from the stress of weather. Alas, nature chose for your dwelling the banks of Aeolus, the stormy realm of air; no doubt, for such as you, she found no time to care."
"You are full of charity," the reed replied with scorn. "But do not be distressed! My lot can well be borne. If I fear storms, it is not for my own sake. Though I must bend, I shall not break; they do me little harm. I think, for you, there may be more danger. It is true that until now, beneath the fiercest blast, your sturdy form stands firm and fast; you never hide from its angry blows. But wait and see the end!"
Scarcely had the reed thus replied when, suddenly from the north, the boisterous Aquilo with hail and rain broke forth. The oak stood firm; the reed bent down to the earth. The storm raged on, fiercer than before, until, roaring, it tore from his root the tree whose towering summit flaunted close to heaven and whose sturdy foot was planted in the realm of shade.