Maxioms by John Byrom
He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.
He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.
Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!
Ah, happy years, once more who would not be a boy!
A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
A sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
In conversation avoid the extremes of forwardness and reserve.
In conversation avoid the extremes of forwardness and reserve.
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.
