John Byrom

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a tear.

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a tear.

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

And all may think which way their judgments lead 'em.

And all may think which way their judgments lead 'em.

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?

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.