The Prodigy.
Tho' Rhyme serves the Thoughts of great Poets to fetter,
It sets off the Sense of small Poets the better.
When I've written in Prose, I often have found,
That my Sense, in a Jumble of Words, was quite drown'd.
In Verse, as in Armies, that march o'er the Plain,
The least Man among them is seen without Pain.
This they owe to good Order, it must be allow'd;
Else Men that are little, are lost in a Croud.
So much for Simile: Now, to be brief,
The following Lines come to tell you my Grief.
'Tis well I can write; for I scarcely can speak,
I'm so plagu'd with my Teeth, which eternally ake.
When the Wind's in the Point which opposes the south,
For Fear of the Cold, I can't open my Mouth:
And you know, to the Sex it must be a Heart--breaking,
To have any Distemper, that keeps them from speaking.
When first I was silent a Day and a Night,
The Women were all in a terrible Fright.
Supplications to Jove, in an Instant, they make--
``Avert the Portent--a Woman not speak!
``Since Poets are Prophets, and often have sung,
``The last Thing that dies in a Woman's her Tongue;
``O Jove, for what Crime is Sapphira thus curst?
``'Tis plain by her Breathing, her Tongue has dy'd first.
``Ye Powers celestial, tell Mortals, what Cause
``Occasions Dame nature to break her own Laws?
``Did the Preacher live now, from his Text he must run;
``And own there was something new under the Sun.
``O Jove, for the future this Punishment spare;
``And all other Evils we'll willingly bear.''
Then they throng to my House, and my Maid they beseech,
To say, if her Mistress had quite lost her Speech.
Nell readily own'd, what they heard was too true;
That To--day I was dumb, give the Devil his Due:
And frankly confess'd, were it always the Case,
No Servant could e'er have a happier Place.
When they found it was Fact, they began all to fear me;
And, dreading Infection, would scarcely come near me:
Till a Neighbour of mine, who was famous for Speeching,
Bid them be of good Cheer, the Difease was not catching;
And offer'd to prove, from Authors good Store,
That the like Case with this never happen'd before;
And if Ages to come should resemble the past,
As 'twas the first Instance, it would be the last.
Yet against this Disorder we all ought to strive:
Were I in her Case, I'd been bury'd alive.
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poem by Mary Barber
Added by Poetry Lover
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