Teint

For time ſhall with his ready pencil ſtand; / Retouch your figures with his ripening hand; / Mellow your colors, and imbrown the teint; / Add every grace, which time alone can grant; / To future ages ſhall your fame convey, / And give more beauties than he takes away.

The paleness of Madame de St. Irvyne's cheek, on which the only teint was an occasional and hectic flush, announced that the illness which consumed her, rapidly increased, and would soon lead her gently to the gates of death.

There was no rose-teint on his wasted cheek