Sonnet. Inscribed to Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire
'TIS NOT thy flowing hair of orient gold,Nor those bright eyes, like sapphire gems that glow;Nor cheek of blushing rose, nor breast of snow,The varying passions of the heart could hold:
Those locks, too soon, shall own a silv'ry ray,Those radiant orbs their magic fires forego;Insatiate TIME shall steal those tints away,Warp thy fine form, and bend thy beauties low:
But the rare wonders of thy polish'd MINDShall mock the empty menace of decay;The GEM, that in thy SPOTLESS BREAST enshrin'd,Glows with the light of intellectual ray;Shall, like the Brilliant, scorn each borrow'd aid,And deck'd with native lustre NEVER FADE!
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