Sixteen Sonnets [by J. C. Bampfylde] |
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I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. | SONNET X. To Mr. WARTON, on reading his History of English Poetry. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
![]() | Sixteen Sonnets | ![]() |
10
SONNET X. To Mr. WARTON, on reading his History of English Poetry.
'Tis not for Muse like mine, in rude essay,To paint the beauties of thy Classic Page;
Which ay deserve far other patronage
Than the small meed sincere she fain would pay
Of Verse, grave Eulogy, or Distich gay;
For that thou deign'st inform this sapient age,
What 'ere was whilom told by tuneful Sage,
Or harp'd in hall, or bow'r, on solemn day;
But more for that thy skill, the minstrel throng,
Forbids in cold Oblivion's arms to lie,
Dear long-lost masters of the British Song,
They shall requite thee better far than I;
And other climes, and other shades among,
Weave thee a Laureate Wreath that ne'er shall die.
![]() | Sixteen Sonnets | ![]() |