O, wither’d is the garland of the war! The soldier’s pole is fall'n; young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
On thy wither’d lips and dry, Which like barren furrows lie, Brooding kisses I will pour, Shall thy youthful heart restore. (Such kind showers in autumn fall, And a second spring recall); Nor from thee will ever part, Ancient Person of my Heart.wilmot, john, 2nd earl of rochester
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