Next Morning by Sun-rising my Spirit came into my Room and said to me, "Now I'll be as good as my Word, you shall breakfast this Morning more solidly that you Supped last Night." With that I got up, and he led me by the Hand to a place at the back of the Garden, where one of the Children of the House stayed for us, with a Piece in his Hand much like to one of our Fire-Locks. He asked my Guide if I would have a dozen of Larks, because _Baboons_ (one of which he took me to be,) loved to feed on them? I had hardly answered, Yes, when the Fowler discharged a Shot, and Twenty or Thirty Larks fell at our Feet ready Roasted. This, thought I presently with my self, verifies the Proverb in our World, of a Country where Larks fall ready Roasted; without doubt it has been made by some Body that came from hence. "Fall too, fall too," said my Spirit, "don't spare; for they have a knack of mingling a certain Composition with their Powder and Shot, which Kills, Plucks, Roasts, and Seasons the Fowl all at once." I took up some of them, and eat them upon his word; and to say the Truth, In all my Life time I never eat any thing so delicious. Having thus Breakfasted we prepared to be gone, and with a Thousand odd Faces, which they use when they would shew their Love, our Landlord received a Paper from my Spirit. I asked him, if it was a Note for the Reckoning? He replied, No, that all was paid, and that it was a Copy of Verses. "How! Verses," said I, "are your Inn-Keepers here curious of Rhime then?" "It's," said he, "the Money of the Country, and the charge we have been at here, hath been computed to amount to Three _Couplets_, or Six Verses, which I have given him. I did not fear we should outrun the Constable; for though we should Pamper our selves for a whole Week, we could not spend a _Sonnet_, and I have Four about me, besides Two _Epigrams_, Two _Odes_, and an _Eclogue_." "Would to God," said I, "it were so in our World; for I know a good many honest Poets there who are ready to Starve, and who might live plentifully if that Money would pass in Payment." I farther asked him, If these Verses would always serve, if one Transcribed them? He made answer, No, and so went on: "When an Author has Composed any, he carries them to the Mint, where the sworn Poets of the Kingdom sit in Court. There these versifying Officers essay the pieces; and if they be judged Sterling, they are rated not according to their Coyn; that's to say, That a _Sonnet_ is not always as good as a _Sonnet_; but according to the intrinsick value of the piece; so that if any one Starve, he must be a Blockhead: For Men of Wit make always good Chear." With Extasie I was admiring the judicious Policy of that Country, when he proceeded in this manner: