To The Right Honourable John Earl Of Orrery, At Bath, After The Death Of The Late Earl. Poem by Mary Barber

'Tis said, for ev'ry common Grief
The Muses can afford Relief:
And, surely, on that heav'nly Train
A Boyle can never call in vain.
Then strait invoke the sacred Nine,
Nor impious slight their Gifts divine;
Dispel those Clouds, which damp your Fire;
Shew, Bath, like

The Earl's Answer,
written extempore.
Nor Bath, nor Tunbridge, can my Lays inspire;
Nor radiant Beauty make me strike the Lyre:
Far from the busy Croud I sit, forlorn;
And sigh in secret, and in Silence mourn:
Nor can my Anguish ever find an End;
I weep a Father, and have lost a Friend.

Reply to the foregoing Verses.
Why did I hope to make your Anguish less?
I try'd to cure, and I have caught, Distress.
Suppress your Sighs, dry up your Tears; 'tis Time:
Excess of Virtue may become a Crime.
You lost, you say, a Friend, and Father too;
But know, Mankind would lose a Friend in you.