Sonett-Forum

To Mr. Warton, on Reading His History of English Poetry

It is 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 deignst inform this sapient age,
What ere was whilom told by tuneful sage,
Or harped in hall or bower 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 never shall die.