[W]ith thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which falling in the land
Have every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents:
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard...
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
The human mortals want their winter here...
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter...the spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which....
We can't blame the fairies for this. It's us.
We are their parents and original.
//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "It is decidedly so."\\
