THE 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.