EPISTLE 



X O 



Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 



WHEN DRYDEN, worn with ficknefs, bow'd 

 with years, 



Was doom'd (my Friend let Pity warm thy tears) 

 The galling pang of penury to feel, 

 For ill-plac'd Loyalty, and courtly Zeal, 

 To fee that Laurel, which his brows o'erfpread, 

 Tranfplanted droop on SHADWELL'S barren head, 

 The Bard opprefs'd, yet not fubdu'd by Fate, 

 For very bread defcended to tranflate : 

 And He, whofe Fancy, copious as his Phrafe, 

 Could light at will Expreffion's brighter!: blaze, 

 On FRESNOY'S Lay employ'd his fludious hour; 

 But niggard there of that melodious power, 

 His pen in hafte the hireling taflc to clofe, 

 Transform'd the ftudied ftrain to carelefs profe, 

 Which, fondly lending faith to French pretence, 

 Miftook its meaning, or obfcur'd its fenfe, 



a 3 Yet 



