Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.

To my Ingenious Friend, Mrs. IANE BARKER, ON MY Publishing her Romance of SCIPINA.

COu'd I the Censure of each Critick dread, Before your Book my Lines shou'd not be read; For 'twill be thought, shou'd I attempt your Praise, Trophies of Int'rest to my self I'd raise. Since the same Pen that wou'd applaud my Friend, At once my Copy, and her Lines, commend: Nor cou'd my Silence 'scape from Censure free, Then other Hands, they'd say, I brib'd for the••.

Yet cou'd Applause your learned Piece set forth, To make your Fame as endless as your Worth; I wou'd invoke some gentle Muse t' inspire My active Pen with a Poetick fire; That it might blazon forth your Matchless Wit, And your due Merits to the World transmit. But since this Subject doth require the Skill, Or of a Maro, or a Waller's Quill, I must desist, and quit the brave design, And the great task to better hands resign. Only as th' empty Coach is wont t' attend, To Mourn the Obsequies of some dear Friend: So shall my Worthless lines ev'n now appear, For want of better, to bring up the Rear Of those that welcome th' Issue of your Wit, Which in so soft and smooth a Style you've writ.

You fair Scipina's Name do here advance Unto the Title of a sam'd Romance: Then in smooth Lines you celebrate her Praise, And crown her Temples with immortal Bays. Her Heroes Fights you bravely have exprest, Till blest with Peace, he in her Arms finds rest.

How wou'd it please the gallant Scipio's Ghost, (The bravest Gen'ral th' Elyzian Fields can boast,) To see his Battles acted o'er again, By thy victorious and triumphant Pen.

Thy Virgin Muse soars upwards still on high, Out-strips the Dedalean Scuddery, With swifter flights of Fancy wings each line, And harshest Thoughts to gentle Love refine. Each Stoick's Heart, and softer Females Breast, With the same Passion that you write's possest. Let carping Criticks then complain of Fate, And envy what they cannot imitate. Since 'tis beyond their Art or Pow'r to blast Your Virgin Lawrels, which do spread so fast.