Maxioms by 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?
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.
But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow.
But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow.
Dreading that climax of all earthly ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
Dreading that climax of all earthly ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
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.
