Verses Ty'd About A Fawn's Neck
As thro' this sylvan Scene I stray'd,
I saw and lov'd the Iv'ry Maid:
And hearing that she fled from Man,
I begg'd this Form of mighty Pan;
To try, by ev'ry winning Art,
To gain Possession of her Heart;
When raging Tempests cloud the Sky,
Transported at her Feet to lie;
When Phoebus brightens up the Weather,
To trip it o'er the Lawns together.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Putland.
Uncommon Charms, I plainly see,
Compleat the Fair for Tyranny.
Then, lest your Form should make you vain
Of Conquest, and of giving Pain,
Those, whom your Beauties have enslav'd,
By me shall now be undeceiv'd.
Long was I Fool enough to view
Thy rapt'rous Shape, and thought it new;
Till lately reading Waller o'er,
I found 'twas Amoret's before.
poem by Mary Barber
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Occasion'd By Seeing The Honourable --- Treat A Person Of Merit With Insolence
Contented in my humble State,
I look with Pity on the Great;
Who only Birth, or Wealth, respect,
And treat true Merit with neglect.
O Pow'r supreme! let me implore
Some Little from thy boundless Store!
Give me a constant, small Support,
Without the Plague of paying Court!
Let none but Fools, who pine to rise,
Be curs'd to bow, where they despise.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Caesar, At The Speaker's Lodgings At Bath.
When lately you acquitted me,
With Carteret I din'd;
And, in Return, (tho' grievous) thee
To Onslow I resign'd.
'Tis wise the happy Hour to seize;
For, search the Nation round,
Such Peers, or Commoners, as these,
Where are they to be found?
Our Situation's chang'd you see:
(How Pleasures fleet away!)
But Yesterday you envy'd me;
I envy you To--day.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Mrs. Newans
You say 'tis hard to copy well,
Where Nature does herself excel.
Allow'd -- yet still let me advise:
Near as you can, to Nature rise;
Nor Time, nor Colours will be lost;
The Draught will more than pay the Cost.
Then dare to draw that Angel Face;
The Pencil may the Features trace;
And, should her Air thy Art defeat,
Add Wings, the Piece will be complete.
poem by Mary Barber
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Verses sent to a Lady, Who Took Delight In Ridiculing A Person
Should you employ your Ridicule,
On those who Pity claim?
Think, Birtha, is the native Fool
For Wit a proper Theme?
On Vice your hum'rous Vein display;
'Tis meritorious there;
Or tow'ring Vanity allay;
But, O! Misfortune spare.
With Wisdom who endows the Brain,
To thy Remembrance call;
Nor, while the Wretched you sustain,
Tincture their Cup with Gall.
poem by Mary Barber
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Written In The Conclusion Of A Letter To Mr. Tickel,
Eternal King, is there one Hour,
To make me greatly bless'd?
When shall I have it in my Pow'r
To succour the Distress'd?
In vain, alas! my Heart o'erflows
With useless Tenderness;
Why must I feel Another's Woes,
And cannot make them less?
Yet I this Torture must endure;
'Tis not reserv'd for me
To ease the Sighing of the Poor,
Or set the Pris'ners free.
poem by Mary Barber
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To Lady H---r,
Tell me, my Patroness, and Friend,
Can Age Parnassian Heights ascend?
Sweet Poesy's light Footsteps trace?
Ah no! I must give up the Chace:
When Time the Head hath silver'd o'er,
The dear Delusion charms no more.
But why hast thou, with Taste endow'd,
At Phoebus' Altar never bow'd?
Shall Books engross thee all the Day?
When, lo! he waits to grace thy Lay.
poem by Mary Barber
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Upon Seeing A Raffle For Addison's Works unfill'd.
Ye gentle Beaux, and thoughtless Belles,
Who gaily rove at Tunbridge--Wells,
With Pockets full; and empty Looks,
Raffling for ev'ry Toy--but Books:
Should Addison's immortal Page
(The Glory of his Land and Age)
Want two Subscriptions to be full,
The World will dare pronounce you dull.
Be wise--subscribe--and shew, at least;
That you have one Pretence to Taste.
poem by Mary Barber
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ToTthe Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Germain, Upon Seeing Her Do A generous Action.
When Ruin threaten'd me of late,
With all its ghastly Train;
Some Pow'r, in Pity to my Fate,
Sent bountiful Germain,
Her Soul is mov'd with my Distress,
And kind Compassion shows;
That gen'rous Hand, long us'd to bless,
Quick mitigates my Woes.
Thrice happy Fair! indulgent Heav'n
To Thee was doubly kind:
To others only Hearts are giv'n;
Thy Fortune suits thy Mind.
poem by Mary Barber
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