But the concern I have most at heart is for our Corporation of
Poets, from whom I am preparing a petition to your Highness, to be
subscribed with the names of one hundred and thirty-six of the first
race, but whose immortal productions are never likely to reach your
eyes, though each of them is now an humble and an earnest appellant
for the laurel, and has large comely volumes ready to show for a
support to his pretensions. The never-dying works of these
illustrious persons your governor, sir, has devoted to unavoidable
death, and your Highness is to be made believe that our age has
never arrived at the honour to produce one single poet.

We confess immortality to be a great and powerful goddess, but in
vain we offer up to her our devotions and our sacrifices if your
Highness's governor, who has usurped the priesthood, must, by an
unparalleled ambition and avarice, wholly intercept and devour them.

To affirm that our age is altogether unlearned and devoid of writers
in any kind, seems to be an assertion so bold and so false, that I
have been sometimes thinking the contrary may almost be proved by
uncontrollable demonstration. It is true, indeed, that although
their numbers be vast and their productions numerous in proportion,
yet are they hurried so hastily off the scene that they escape our
memory and delude our sight. When I first thought of this address,
I had prepared a copious list of titles to present your Highness as
an undisputed argument for what I affirm. The originals were posted
fresh upon all gates and corners of streets; but returning in a very
few hours to take a review, they were all torn down and fresh ones
in their places. I inquired after them among readers and
booksellers, but I inquired in vain; the memorial of them was lost
among men, their place was no more to be found; and I was laughed to