As a rule, I don't like to laugh at the misfortune of others. The exception to that rule is if it's really, really funny.
The boy may wrestle, when Night--working Fancy steals him to the arms Of nymph oft wish'd awake, and, 'mid the rage Of the soft tumult, ev'ry turgid cell Spontaneous disembogues its lucid store, Bland and of azure tinct.