Maxioms by John Byrom
I make a declaration every spring,
Of reformation ere the year run out,
But somehow this my read more
I make a declaration every spring,
Of reformation ere the year run out,
But somehow this my vestal vary takes wing.
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.
A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
For without transformation
Men become wolves on every slight occasion.
For without transformation
Men become wolves on every slight occasion.
