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.

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?

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.

Some say, that Seignior Bononchini
Compar'd to Handel's a mere Ninny;
Others aver, to him, that Handel
read more

Some say, that Seignior Bononchini
Compar'd to Handel's a mere Ninny;
Others aver, to him, that Handel
Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.
Strange! that such high Disputes shou'd be
'Twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.