Poem by William Broome

To a Lady of Thirty

No 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.

1. The Oak, and the Dunghill
2. A Pastoral
3. Melancholy
4. The Rosebud. To the Lady Jane Wharton

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