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.

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs,
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter.

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs,
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter.

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.

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eye
We late saw streaming o'er.

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eye
We late saw streaming o'er.

A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.