She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen,
Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien
Who froze my hopes and triumph'd in my fears,
Now sheds her graces in the waste of years.
Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow,
And dimm'd her eye, and wrinkled is her brow;
And querulous the voice by time repress'd,
Whose artless music stole me from my rest.
Age gives redress to love; and silvery hair
And earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair.