Sweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
“An Angel is here from the heavenly Climes,
Or again does return the Golden times;
Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray,
She opens her lips tis the Month of May.”
Mary moves in soft beauty & conscious delight
To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the Night,
Nor once blushes to own to the rest of the Fair
That sweet Love & Beauty are worthy our care,
In the Morning the Villagers rose with delight
And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night,
And Mary arose among Friends to be free,
But no Friend from henceforward thou, Mary, shalt see.
Some said she was proud some calld her a ****
And some when she passed by shut to the door
A damp cold came oer her her blushes all fled
Her lillies & roses are blighted & shed
“O why was I born with a different Face?
Why was I not born like this Envious Race?
Why did Heaven adorn me with bountiful hand,
And then set me down in an envious Land?
To be weak as a Lamb & smooth as a Dove,
And not to raise Envy is calld Christian Love;
But if you raise Envy your Merits to blame
For planting such spite in the weak & the tame.
I will humble my Beauty, I will not dress fine,
I will keep from the Ball & my Eyes shall not shine;
And if any Girls Lover forsakes her for me,
I’ll refuse him my hand & from Envy be free.”
She went out in Morning attird plain & neat;
“Proud Mary’s gone Mad,” said the Child in the Street;
She went out in Morning in plain neat attire,
And came home in Evening bespatterd with mire.
She trembled & wept sitting on the Bed side,
She forgot it was Night, & she trembled & cried;
She forgot it was Night, she forgot it was Morn,
Her soft Memory imprinted with Faces of Scorn,
With Faces of Scorn & with Eyes of disdain
Like foul Fiends inhabiting Marys mild Brain;
She remembers no Face like the Human Divine
All Faces have Envy, sweet Mary, but thine;
And thine is a Face of sweet Love in Despair,
And thine is a Face of mild sorrow & care,
And thine is a Face of wild terror & fear
That shall never be quiet till laid on its bier.