The Man Who Frets at Worldly Strife
The man who frets at worldly strife
Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold–
He smiles when others sigh,
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs though wet or dry.
There’s fun in everything we meet,–
The greatest, worst, and best;
Existence is a merry treat,
And every speech a jest:
So, come what may, the man’s in luck
Who turns it all to glee,
And laughing, cries, with honest Puck,
“Good Lord! what fools ye be.”
