Here you will find the Poem An Invitation To Edward Walpole, Esq. of poet Mary Barber
When I heard you were landed, I flew to the Nine, Intreating their Aid to invite you to dine. They told me, I came on that Errand too late; For you were engag'd by the Rich, and the Great. Already! said I; they were speedy indeed: However I'll try, and I hope to succeed. Those Creatures of Power, who your Levee attend, If your Father were out, their Conge's would end: Tho' your personal Merit is great, 'tis allow'd; 'Tis the Son of the Statesman, that weighs with the Croud. I expect not a Place, nor hope for a Pension, The Love of the Muse is my only Pretension. I hate to abuse--and I never can flatter: I write for no Party, nor either bespatter. From the Lands of Parnassus the Rents are ill--paid, And England has cruelly cramp'd us in Trade: So look not for China, or Service of Plate, Or ought that is costly, to tempt you to eat. Yet a Way to engage you I think I have hit on: I mean, to remember our Friends in Great--Britain. Two Bottles of Wine, and two Dishes I'll give: Then fly from the Crouds that oppress you--and live. The first Glass shall welcome you, Sir, to our Coast; And dear Lady Conway shall be my next Toast. With Mirth, and good Humour, I'll make up the Treat; I know you're too wise, to love dining in State.
