When luck is sour and men frown as they pass,
 I cry on my own time, to no one's ear,
 And tell the clouds like stones, then find a glass
 And look at who looks back, and hate him dear.
 I wish that I had hope, like one I know:
 I wish I had his looks, his charm, his friends,
 I want to be like them, go where they go,
 And not stop cold where all the old joy ends.
 I think this, and could howl it at the moon,
 Yet day to day the sun shines on a bird
 Who wakes up in the grass, and makes a tune,
 Who cares for song, and not if it is heard.
 And then I have your face, your voice, your kiss;
 And gold and fame are not so good as this.

                                -- Will the Bard
                                   (done by Mike Ford)