How much of paper’s spoil’d! what floods of ink!

And yet how few, how very few can think!

The knack of writing is an easy trade;

But to think well requires—at least a head.

Once in an age, one genius may arise,

With wit well cultur’d, and with learning wise:

Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot!

No tender scions springing at the root.

Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurell’d head,

No lays, like mine, can live beneath his shade: