FRANCES BROOKE

1724-1789

Her mouth, which a smile,

Devoid of all guile,

Half opens to view,

Is the bud of the rose

In the morning that blows,

Impearl’d with the dew.

More fragrant her breath

Than the flow’r-scented heath

At the dawning of day;

The hawthorn in bloom,

The lily’s perfume,

Or the blossoms of may.