John Byrom

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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?