Here you will find the Poem To Mr. Rose; of poet 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.
