sat upon the merits of every contemporary performance. After the age of Clement VII. the Italians seem'd to think that there was more merit in praising or censuring well, than in writing well; almost every subsequent performance being designed rather to shew the excellence of their taste than their genius.
But while I describe Italy as thus fallen from her former excellence, I cannot restrain the pleasure of mentioning one or two poets who seem born to redeem the honour of their country. Metastasio has restored nature in all her beauteous simplicity: no poet ever painted more conformably to truth, nor is there any whose characters speak a more heart-felt passion. His language also, if a foreigner may be allowed to determine, excells even that of Tasso, and his scenery isinfinitely
