John Byrom

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.

With good and gentle-humored hearts
I choose to chat where'er I come
Whate'er the subject be that read more

With good and gentle-humored hearts
I choose to chat where'er I come
Whate'er the subject be that starts.
But if I get among the glum
I hold my tongue to tell the truth
And keep my breath to cool my broth.

How the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

How the devil is it that fresh features
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures?

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

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

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?