XLVI. Our most learned monk _Don John de Mabillon_, in his Treatise on Monastic Studies, says, that an excellent poet is a very rare treasure, and I agree with him in sentiment; for upon strict examination, where, among the numbers of poetical essays that are published, will you meet with any one, which (omitting many other requisite qualities) is natural, sublime, sweet and pointed; and at the same time, ingenious, and clear; brilliant without affectation, sonorous without turgidity, and harmonious without impropriety; that runs without hobbling, is delicate without affectation, forcible without harshness, beautiful without paint or strained colouring, noble without presumption, and copious and comprehensive without obscurity? I will almost venture to pronounce, that he who would find a poet capable of writing verses in this stile, should seek for him in the regions inhabited by the Phœnix. XLVII. In Spain however, poetry is in so deplorable a state, that according to all appearances, it would be needless to search for such a one there. He who errs the least, with the exception of here and there a particular one, seems as if he studied how he should commit faults. All his care appears to be placed, in swelling the verse with irrational hyperboles, and pompous words; by which means, he produces a bloated, and confirmed dropsical poem, the sight of which turns your stomach, and the perusal fills you with melancholy. Those essential qualities, propriety and nature, without which, neither poetry or prose can ever be good, seem to have abandoned, and become fugitives from our compositions. Our authors don’t in their productions, appear to have hit upon that native splendor, which gives a brilliancy to their ideas, but rather, to have disfigured their best thoughts, with affected and bombast expressions; so that their original conceptions, may be compared to a fine woman that falls into indiscreet hands to be dressed and ornamented.