The Roundelay.
18th Century Anne Hunter EnglishTHE ROUNDELAY.
FORGET, forget the playful time, Let every trace be done away, When I with many an idle rhyme Was wont to waste the summer's day.
Then hope was new, and love was young, And fancy on her poet smil'd, And as my roundelay I sung The cares of life my song beguil'd.
Now hope is fled, the heart grows cold, And fancy wears a cypress crown; The roundelay grows dull and old, And all the gay delights are flown.
FORGET, forget the playful time, Let every trace be done away, When I with many an idle rhyme Was wont to waste the summer's day.