John Byrom

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?

Bone and Skin, two millers thin,
Would starve us all, or near it;
But be it known read more

Bone and Skin, two millers thin,
Would starve us all, or near it;
But be it known to Skin and Bone
That Flesh and Blood can't bear it.

My days of love are over: me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
read more

My days of love are over: me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of; that they made before:
In fact I must not lead the life I did do.

Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!

Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!