John Byrom

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught read more

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?

For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth.

For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth.

I make a declaration every spring,
Of reformation ere the year run out,
But somehow this my read more

I make a declaration every spring,
Of reformation ere the year run out,
But somehow this my vestal vary takes wing.

My days of love are over: me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
read more

My days of love are over: me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of; that they made before:
In fact I must not lead the life I did do.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

My hair is grey, but not with years.