To a Lady of Thirty by William Broome

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 superfl’ous charms,
But adds, for ev’ry 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 like Age!

Thus the rich orange-trees, produce
At once both ornament and use;
Here op’ning blossoms we behold,
There fragrant orbs of ripen’d gold.

From: Broome, William, The Poetical Works of William Broome, L.L.D. with the Life of the Author by Samuel Johnson, L.L.D., 1807, Samuel Bagster: London, p. 101.
(http://books.google.com.au/books?id=YTVYAAAAcAAJ)

Date: 1727

By: William Broome (1689-1745)