John Byrom

I tell the tale as it was told to me.

I tell the tale as it was told to me.

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd.

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd.

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.

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

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?