Maxioms by John Byrom
Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!
Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!
And all may think which way their judgments lead 'em.
And all may think which way their judgments lead 'em.
But who would scorn the month of June,
Because December with his breath so hoary,
Must come? read more
But who would scorn the month of June,
Because December with his breath so hoary,
Must come? Much rather should he court the ray,
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.
A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
The point is plain as a pike staff.
The point is plain as a pike staff.
