by Jonathan Swift
Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garret haste;
Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign’d to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, ’tis a quaint device;
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll must have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing Pope;
And when he sets to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill’d the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;
Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And swear they are your own.