John Bampfylde - To Mr. Warton, on Reading His History of English Poetry lyrics

It is not for Muse like mine, in rude essay, To paint the beauties of thy cla**ic 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 sk**, 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.