THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
In our old fields of childish pleasure. Where now, asthen, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure; And that is not ten years ago.
But though first love's impassion'd blindness
Has pass'd away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.
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��603 Three Men of Gotham
'EAMEN three! What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free^ To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine. And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be. In a bowl Care may not be.
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