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