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 MIND Shall 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!