TO A FRIEND

By William Watson

Soon may the edict lapse, that on you lays

This dire compulsion of infertile days,

This hardest penal toil, reluctant rest!

Meanwhile I count you eminently blest,

Happy from labours heretofore well done,

Happy in tasks auspiciously begun.

For they are blest that have not much to rue —

That have not oft mis-heard the prompter's cue,

Stammered and stumbled and the wrong parts played,

And life a Tragedy of Errors made.