At times, a comic on the stage of life

And far more often still, an utter fool;

Yet to make fun of trials and their strife

Does rob of spite the pleasures of the cruel.

It is a special grace to make as light

All dark calamities that bring life down,

For all know well, detractors will delight

In sour misfortune that most lives confound.

There lurks a breed within the human kind

That relishes another’s misery;

In these black hearts pure evil is refined

To tip the arrows of sheer treachery.

A jest, a grin, quick laughter in duress

Outshines the armor of an iron breast.