John Byrom

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd.

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd.

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.

He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.

He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.

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.

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?