TO A LADY OF THIRTY

by: William Broome (1689-1745)

O more let youth its beauty boast,

S---n at thirty reigns a toast,

And, like the Sun as he declines,

More mildly, but more sweetly shines.

 

The hand of Time alone disarms

Her face of its superfluous charms:

But adds, for every grace resign'd,

A thousand to adorn her mind.

 

Youth was her too inflaming time;

This, her more habitable clime:

How must she then each heart engage,

Who blooms like youth, is wise in age!

 

Thus the rich orange-trees produce

At once both ornament, and use:

Here opening blossoms we behold,

There fragrant orbs of ripen'd gold.

• The Rosebud
• To a Lady of Thirty