Without these allowances, how is it possible we modern wits should ever have an opportunity to introduce our collections, listed under so many thousand heads of a different nature; for want of which the learned world would be deprived of infinite delight, as well as instruction, and we ourselves buried beyond redress in an inglorious and undistinguished oblivion.
From such elements as these I am alive to behold the day wherein the corporation of authors can outvie all its brethren in the guild. A happiness derived to us, with a great many others, from our Scythian ancestors; among whom the number of pens was so infinite, that the Grecian eloquence had no other way of expressing it than by saying that in the regions far to the north it was hardly possible for a man to travel, the very air was so replete with feathers.
Jonathan Swift (1667–1745).
A RHAPSODY ON POETRY.
All human race would fain be wits,
And millions miss for one who hits:
Young’s universal passion, Pride,
Was never known to spread so wide.
Say, Britain! could you ever boast,
Three poets in an age at most?