This world wouldst be from what we find it now!
Or ’twouldst be better still if time wouldst pass,
Whilst laughin’ at the antics of the clown,
As slow as run’st the sands within the glass
Whilst I, ’neath sun that almost melts me down,
Must mow the lawn. O Fate, why must, alas!
Thy smile be so much shorter than thy frown?
