Mary Barber

(1690-1757 / England)

To Mr. Rose; - Poem by Mary Barber

Believe me, Rose, howe'er this Con. may please,
With flowing Numbers, and an easy Phrase;
With Wit, with Humour, and with ev'ry Art,
That steals the Ear, and ravishes the Heart;
Howe'er his Verses are with Rapture read,
They ne'er could spring from his poor Baby Head.
No, no, dear Rose, his Tricks are too well known;
They are his Mother's Verses, not his own.

Presumptuous Youth! this dang'rous Art forbear;
Nor tempt a Character beyond thy Sphere.
Let meaner Flames thy tender Breast inspire;
Touch not a Beam of hers--'Tis sacred Fire!
Phoebus might trust thy Mother with his Sun;
But you, fond Boy, may prove a Phaeton.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 20, 2010

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