The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure:
What's he? What? Touch-paper to be sure.
What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the same class you'll find;
They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.
Observe the maiden, innocently sweet,
She's fair white-paper, an unsullied sheet;