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.