John Byrom

He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.

He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.

I love my neighbor as myself,
Myself like him too, by his leave,
Nor to his pleasure, read more

I love my neighbor as myself,
Myself like him too, by his leave,
Nor to his pleasure, power or pelf
Came I to crouch, as I conceive.
Dame Nature doubtless has designed
A man the monarch of his mind.

Bone and Skin, two millers thin,
Would starve us all, or near it;
But be it known read more

Bone and Skin, two millers thin,
Would starve us all, or near it;
But be it known to Skin and Bone
That Flesh and Blood can't bear it.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

My hair is grey, but not with years.

Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!

Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!