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A Year of Poetry – Day 221

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 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.
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