No, misery makes sport to mock itself.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

The miserable have no other medicine, But only hope.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to a grim and comfortless despair, And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?

Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuffed, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.

When we our betters see bearing our woes,
We scarcely think our miseries our foes.