He plays his jest upon a stage of hearts,
Too poor a player to be more than clown,
A comic shadow working at his part
To keep away the silence and break down
His own misfortunes to amuse. He takes
The leading passions of a heart and
Juggles them until, on cue, they break.
He slips on a banana peel of love and lands,
With much commotion, on his face.
Turns all to laughter and since life is spent
In Folly’s grip why dull the jest with grace?
But this inconsequential ornament
Well has earned his comic epitaph:
She was beautiful, I made her laugh.