It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,
Nor yet a pomegranate bisection—
Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,
A match for the Pink of Perfection!
A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,
Nearly matches the colour it may be;
The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,
The hue of the palm of a baby:
The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,
The rose in a young girl's complexion—