specimen of our learning, our politeness, and our wit. I do
therefore affirm, upon the word of a sincere man, that there is now
actually in being a certain poet called John Dryden, whose
translation of Virgil was lately printed in large folio, well bound,
and if diligent search were made, for aught I know, is yet to be
seen. There is another called Nahum Tate, who is ready to make oath
that he has caused many reams of verse to be published, whereof both
himself and his bookseller, if lawfully required, can still produce
authentic copies, and therefore wonders why the world is pleased to
make such a secret of it. There is a third, known by the name of
Tom Durfey, a poet of a vast comprehension, an universal genius, and
most profound learning. There are also one Mr. Rymer and one Mr.
Dennis, most profound critics. There is a person styled Dr.
Bentley, who has wrote near a thousand pages of immense erudition,
giving a full and true account of a certain squabble of wonderful
importance between himself and a bookseller; he is a writer of
infinite wit and humour, no man rallies with a better grace and in
more sprightly turns. Further, I avow to your Highness that with
these eyes I have beheld the person of William Wotton, B.D., who has
written a good-sized volume against a friend of your governor, from
whom, alas! he must therefore look for little favour, in a most
gentlemanly style, adorned with utmost politeness and civility,
replete with discoveries equally valuable for their novelty and use,
and embellished with traits of wit so poignant and so apposite, that
he is a worthy yoke-mate to his fore-mentioned friend.

Why should I go upon farther particulars, which might fill a volume
with the just eulogies of my contemporary brethren? I shall
bequeath this piece of justice to a larger work, wherein I intend to
write a character of the present set of wits in our nation; their