Who can’t a jest, or hint, or look endure:
What is 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;
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.