Classic Poem

When stain'd with ink, that Lip I view,
Where Joys their fragrant sentry keep,
Much I lament its alter'd hue,
And curse the quill that soil'd that Lip;

Yet stains themselves, perchance, improve,
Like patches on a Beauty's cheek,
Perchance, may serve to ambush Love;
Or rival Morning's rosey break;

Thus peeping thro' the foliage green,
Speckled with black one sunny side,
A ripe twin-cherry have I seen,
Pouting, reveal its purple pride.