When, seen as a flop by fate and all men's eyes,
 I on my own weep at my thrown out state
 And irk deaf God with my of no use cries
 And look at my own self and curse my fate,
 And wish I'm more like he who has some hope,
 Look more like him, and like him had some friends,
 And wish I'd this man's art and that man's scope,
 And what I have I like least in the end;
 Yet when in these thoughts I all but hate poor me
 With luck I think on thee, and then my state,
 Like to the lark at break of day that flees
 From where earth sulks, to sing hymns at God's gate;
   For thy sweet love when thought of such wealth brings
   That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

                                -- Will the Bard