An Invitation To Edward Walpole, Esq. Poem by 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.