Sonnet to the Same

HOW may I, GIBBON, to thy taste confide
This artless copy of a Gallic gem?
Wilt thou not cast th' unpolish'd work aside,
And with just scorn my failing line condemn?
No! thou wilt never, with pedantic phlegm,
Spurn the first produce of a female mind;
Young flowers! that, trembling on a tender stem,
Court thy protection from each ruder wind.
Tho' I may injure, by a coarser style,
The work that Lambert's graceful hand design'd,
I still, if favour'd by thy partial smile,
Shall boast like her of friendship's joys refin'd.
Nor fear from age her lift of female woes,
If, as my years increase, thy friendship grows.