To a Lady, who invited the Author into the Country. Mary Barber Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T42622 519 p. 45 Barber, Mary, ca. 1690-1757. Poems on Several Occasions [poems only]. London Printed for C. Rivington, at the Bible and Crown in St. Paul's Church-Yard 1734 pp. 132-135. xlviii,283,[7]p.; 8⁰.

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To a Lady , who invited the Author into the Country . How gladly , Madam , would I go , To see your Gardens , and Chateau ; From thence the fine Improvements view , Or walk your verdant Avenue ; Delighted , hear the Thrushes sing , Or listen to some bubbling Spring ; If Fate had giv'n me Leave to roam ! But Citizens must stay at Home . We're lonesome since you went away , And should be dead — but for our Tea ; That Helicon of female Wits , Which fills their Heads with rhyming Fits ! This Liquor seldom heats the Brain , But turns it oft , and makes us vain ; With Fumes supplies Imagination , Which we mistake for Inspiration . This makes us cramp our Sense in Fetters , And teaze our Friends with chiming Letters . I grieve your Brother has the Gout ; Tho' he's so stoically stout , I've heard him mourn his Loss of Pain , And wish it in his Feet again . What Woe poor Mortals must endure , When Anguish is their only Cure ! STREPHON is ill ; and I perceive His lov'd Elvira grows so grave , I fear , like Niobe , her Moan Will turn herself and me to Stone . Have I not cause to dread this Fate , Who scarce so much as smile of late ? Whilst lovely Landscapes you survey , And peaceful pass your Hours away , Refresh'd with various blooming Sweets ; I'm sick of Smells and dirty Streets , Stifled with Smoke , and stunn'd with Noise Of ev'ry Thing — but my own Boys ; Thro' Rounds of plodding doom'd to run , And very seldom see the Sun : Yet sometimes pow'rful Fancy reigns , And glads my Eyes with sylvan Scenes ; Where Time , enamour'd , slacks his Pace , Enchanted by the warbling Race ; And , in Atonement for his Stay , Thro' Cities hurries on the Day . O ! would kind Heav'n reverse my Fate , Give me to quit a Life I hate , To flow'ry Fields I soon would fly : Let others stay — to cheat and lye . There , in fome blissful Solitude , Where eating Care should ne'er intrude , The Muse should do the Country Right , And paint the glorious Scenes you slight . Dublin , 1728.