Miss Mary Bennet, life’s middle child:

Dour, unremarked and, by choosing, unstyled.

Watching your sisters play whist in their pairs

Consigned to their shadows, resigned to your prayers.

Oh, to be Jane! The most prized of them all

Who turned every head at the Netherfield Ball.

Or Lizzy, who routs senseless suitors through wit

Delighting your father more than he’d admit.

Would you be like Kitty who follows the crowd?

Or Lydia, brash and unsuitably loud?

Alas, those sweet psalms you impart by the dozen

Did fail in the end to secure you a cousin

And having entailed the estate to a son

The Bennets have lost and the Collins have won.

And so, dearest Mary, were God so to judge

Will your role be that of your poor mother’s drudge?

Or is your intended more than a mere dream

Who’s destined to save you as part of His scheme?

Now, blow out the candle and softly to bed

Let sleep chase such worriment out of your head.

And judge not too harshly, as you’re wont to do

For, one day our eyes may be turned toward you.