Ye Poets Ragged And Forlorn, Down From Your Garrets 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[1] Must Have A Special Care To Leave The Margin Wide. Lend These To Paper-Sparing[2] 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.