Here is a red spider, not so big as a pin's head. Can you imagine an elephant being interested in him—caring whether he is happy or isn't, or whether he is wealthy or poor, or whether his sweetheart returns his love or not, or whether his mother is sick or well, or whether he is looked up to in society or not, or whether his enemies will smite him or his friends desert him, or whether his hopes will suffer blight or his political ambitions fail, or whether he shall die in the bosom of his family or neglected and despised in a foreign land?

They say the gods smite evil with thunderbolts.

God smite the Queen.

He stops, and from Achates hastes to seize / his chance-brought arms, the arrows and the bow, / the branching antlers smites, and lays the leader low. / Next fall the herd; and through the leafy glade / in mingled rout he drives the scattered train, / plying his shafts.

Moaning and tumult in the house we hear, / wailings of misery, and shouts that smite / the golden stars, and women's shrieks of fear, / and trembing matrons, hurrying left and right, / cling to and kiss the doors, made frantic by affright.

Let one undo my shoes, lest from afar an envious look should smite me.