Poems with rhymes of sour

And his looks were sad and sour;
And weary was his courser's pace,
As he reach'd his rocky tower.

Are the mob that howls at the door!
Wine shall run thick to the end,
Bread taste sour.

Or you, poor heart, so long ago turned sour,
To the best, dearest, loveliest, whose divine
Regard has made you open like a flower?

And gif the custoc's sweet or sour.
Wi' joctelegs they taste them;
Syne cozily, aboon the door,

And both Democrats and Tories - Bills and Percys - looked quite sour
When the numbers showed them clearly neither party stood in clover;
For a few odd Independents held the balance of the power.

Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour,
For Time and Death, relentless, claim
Our little hour.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

In loveliness and power!
Awhile, it loves the sweets alone,
But next it loves the sour.

To square the ledger in some thortful hour,
The everlastin' answer to the sum
Must allus be, 'Where's sense in gittin' sour? '

But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;

They have no peaceful hour.
And they have aches in every place,
And what was sweet seems sour.

Tom Killigrew's wife, that Holland fine flower,
At the sight of this signior did fart and belch sour,

So, when I sees some peb beguile an hour
Be joinin' in the chorus o' me song,
I never sees no use in turnin' sour;

Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour:
The large green courts, where we were wont to hove,
With eyes cast up unto the maidens' tower,

A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour

But mainly the rich business of the hour,
Their sight, made blind by urgency of blood,
Embraced; and facts, the passing sweet or sour,

When lo, to check the mirthful hour,
Old TIME appear'd, with aspect sour;

Delights the sex, or ugly, fair, or sour;
By night or day:--'tis sweet at any hour.

I've plucked them oft in boyhood's early hour,
That then I gave such name, and thought it true;
But now I know that other fruit as sour,

SAY that the men of the old black tower,
Though they but feed as the goatherd feeds,
Their money spent, their wine gone sour,