Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do, 
Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say 
That I am wearing half my life away 
For bubble-work that only fools pursue. 
And if my bubbles be too small for you, 
Blow bigger then your own: the games we play 
To fill the frittered minutes of a day, 
Good glasses are to read the spirit through. 

And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; 
And some unprofitable scorn resign,
To praise the very thing that he deplores; 
So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, 
The shame I win for singing is all mine, 
The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.