I was brought forth by Misery distressed, Though Mother is the term that I would rather; Sorrow begot me, and I called him Father, And Melancholy nursed me at her breast. Fold after fold, the swaddling clothes that pressed My baby limbs were pleated with annoy; And so from head to foot the little boy With nothing good was governed and was dressed. When I was grown into a man they found A wife to comfort me with voice that jars The very heavens above, a jangling sound Like the perpetual strumming of guitars. Thus any man whose wife has died is reckoned A hopeless fool if he should take a second.