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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=455580" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Written For My Son, To Mr. Barry;</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=455580" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Since Phoebus makes your Verse divine,<br>Since the God glows in ev'ry Line;<br>Why should you think, but I, with Ease,<br>Might write my native, artless Lays?</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=455580" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My Mother told me many a Time,<br>That Double--dealing was a Crime:<br>Alas! and is it only so,<br>In us, whose Birth and Fortune's low?<br>For you, tho' nobly born, descend<br>To injure, yet appear a Friend;<br>And seem to make my Praise your Aim,<br>With more Success to wound my Fame.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=455580" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">So your Apollo's Priests, of old,<br>(As by his Poets we are told)<br>With glorious Wreaths the Victim drest;<br>Then plung'd the Poniard in his Breast.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Mary+Barber">Mary Barber</a></strong></div>

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