War met him, and fell pestilence,
Sore toil and want, all the dread foes of every day;
These he struck down, then went he hence,
Sent by a soft cat-thing that clawed him in her play.
Laugh and the world laughs with you, Weep and you weep alone For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own
• Ella Wheeler Wilcox