Richard Fanshawe Poems

Let us use it while we may
Snatch those joys that haste away!
Earth her winter coat may cast,
And renew her beauty past:
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Spring, the year's youth, fair mother of new flowers,
New leaves, new loves, drawn by the winged hours,
Thou art return'd; - but the felicity
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Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
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