I Have a Touch of Your Condition, That Cannot Brook the Accent of Reproof.

Happy Birthday, Richard III:

Thou cam’st on Earth to make the Earth my hell.
A grievous burden was thy birth to me;
Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy;
Thy school days frightful, desp’rate, wild, and furious;
Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous;
Thy age confirmed, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody,
More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred.
What comfortable hour canst thou name,
That ever graced me with thy company?

Uh...thanks, Mom.