Soon shall the dark forbid the light
To any hand with power to write,
And the new myriad scribbling-race,
Like locusts shroud all Sense's face,
Rushing (where angels are not seen)
Into the Prigs' Own Magazine,
While Upper-Tens profusely scrawl
In grammar from the servants' hall,
Till Ink itself shall blush to tint
Nothing but amateurs in print,