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Alciato's Book of Emblems
On fertility that is harmful to itself
I am a chestnut tree, planted at a fork in the road by the care of a rustic. Now I'm sport for boys throwing stones. Standing tall, my branches mutilated, my bark damaged, I am assaulted on all sides by sling-stones hurled at me eagerly. What greater disgrace could afflict a sterile tree? Alas, I unhappily bear the fruit for my own destruction.