Written At Tunbridge—Wells, To The Right Honourable The Lady Barbara North
Faint--Fair, and act a Play.
In some few Hours we must repair,
To act, like Thespis, in the Fair:
And, as our Stage is of a Piece
With that transmitted down from Greece,
Some Pow'r celestial must unfold
Our Fable, too obscurely told:
And, since it helps the Poet's Art,
When Actors speak and look their Part;
Wonder not, fair One, that we sue,
The Goddess may be play'd by you.
poem by Mary Barber
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Written For My Son, To Some Of The Fellows Of The College,
We of late had a terrible Rout in our House;
If I happen'd to speak, I was sure of a Souse.
My Mamma had the Tooth--ach, and I felt the Smart--
O Steel, I for ever will yalue thy Art:
Both Children, and Servants, to thee are beholden;
Let them do what they would, they were sure of a Scolding.
Athenians, I humbly beseech you, explain,
Why the Tongue cannot rest, when the Teeth are in Pain.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Reverend Dr. L---.
In vain you shew a happy Nation,
The Gospel's gracious Dispensation;
And plead from thence, to bring up Youth
To early Piety and Truth.
To unattentive Ears you preach,
What Miseries alone can teach.
'Tis said, Hibernia boasts a Flood,
Famous for petrefying Wood:
Tunbridge, thy Min'ral Streams, we know,
A stranger Transformation show:
Their dire Effects the Wretched feel:
Thy Waters turn the Heart to Steel.
poem by Mary Barber
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An Apology Written For My Son To His Master
I beg your Scholar you'll excuse,
Who dares no more debase the Muse.
My Mother says, If e'er she hears,
I write again on worthless Peers,
Whether they're living Lords, or dead,
She'll box the Muse from out my Head.
Sir, let me have no more, she cry'd,
Of Panegyricks, ill apply'd:
For Praise, ill--plac'd, adds no more Grace,
Than Jewels to Samantha's Face;
Whose Lustre serves to let us see
Both Folly, and Deformity.
poem by Mary Barber
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To A Gentleman, Who Shew'd A Fine Poem As His Own.
No more at Criticks, Ned, repine,
Who say those Numbers are not thine.
I own I was suspicious too,
And thought the Verse too good for You:
But since you say those Lines you writ,
The Proof is full, and I submit.
So, if Thaumantia should profess,
She owes Herself her glorious Dress;
And Cynthia, Empress of the Night,
Declare she shines by native Light;
(Tho' envious Criticks vent their Gall,)
I'd equally believe you all.
poem by Mary Barber
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By A Person Of Quality.
Remote from Strife, from urban Throngs, and Noise.
Here dwells my Soul amidst domestic Joys:
No ratling Coaches serious Thoughts annoy;
Nor busy prating Fools my Peace destroy:
Wrapt up in all the Sweets of rural Ease,
My great Creator's Works my Senses please.
The Mind, in peaceful Solitude, has Room
To range in Thought, and ramble far from home,
Others may court the Joys which Princes give,
Whilst I, in sacred Silence, truly live.
poem by Mary Barber
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An Hymn To Sleep.
Written when the Author was sick.
Somnus, pow'rful Deity,
Mortals owe their Bliss to thee.
How long shall I thy Absence mourn,
And when be bless'd in thy Return?
Relentless God! why will you flee,
And take Delight to torture me:
Or do you kindly flight my Pray'r,
To make me for my Change prepare?
'Tis well this Happiness remains;
When you resuse to ease our Pains,
Your Brother Death your Place supplies,
And kindly seals the Wretch's Eyes.
poem by Mary Barber
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On The Earl Of Oxford And Mortimer's Giving His Daughter In Marriage In Oxford--Chapel.
See, in the Temple rais'd by Harley's Hand,
His beauteous Off--spring at the Altar stand:
There Mortimer resigns his darling Care;
To happy Portland gives the blooming Fair.
Where had the Parent's Pray'r like Favour found?
Where soar'd so high, as from that sacred Ground?
What Bosom, but Devotion's Ardor feels,
When, at the Shrine he hallow'd, Harley kneels?
At such a Sight superior Beings pleas'd,
To higher Notes their Hallelujahs rais'd.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Resolution
The Favours of Fortune I once hop'd to gain,
And often invok'd her, but ever in vain.
She despis'd my Addresses, which gave me such Grief,
I flew to the Muses, in Hopes of Relief.
Ah Wretch that I was! I might very well know,
'Twas the Method to make her for ever my Foe.
They laugh'd at the Goddess, and bid me despise her;
But Time and Experience have made me grow wiser.
This unhappy Mistake I resolve to repair.
O Fortune! thy Votaries must persevere.
poem by Mary Barber
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To The Right Honourable The Lady Kilmorey
Start not, nor tremble at the Sight of this;
It comes not written from the Realms of Bliss:
'Tis true, you see, your once--lov'd Roydon's Hand;
Thence may conclude from Heav'n some high Command;
Conscious perhaps of your celestial Frame,
You think you're call'd to Worlds from whence you came.
Not so--but ere her Soul began its Flight,
She thought of you, and staid a--while to write;
Kindly for me her dying Suit address'd:
Then view it, Madam, as her last Request.
poem by Mary Barber
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