John Byrom

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity.

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity.

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a tear.

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a tear.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

But who would scorn the month of June,
Because December with his breath so hoary,
Must come? read more

But who would scorn the month of June,
Because December with his breath so hoary,
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.

And all may think which way their judgments lead 'em.

And all may think which way their judgments lead 'em.