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ART OF PAINTING,
CHARLES ALPHONSE DU FRESNOY;
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE
BY WILLIAM MASON, M.A.
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
Was doom'd (my friend, let pity warm thy tears,)
And he, whose fancy, copious as his phrase,
Yet still he pleas'd, for Dryden still must
Whether with artless elegance and ease
He glides in prose, or from its tinckling chime,
This artless elegance, this native fire Provok'd his tuneful heir* to strike the lyre,
Who, proud his numbers with that
prose to join, Wove an illustrious wreath for friendship's
How oft, on that fair shrine when Poets bind The flowers of song, does partial passion blind Their judgement's eye! How oft does truth disclaim
The deed, and scorn to call it genuine fame!
* Mr. Pope, in his Epistle to Jervas, has these lines :
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire