Fill up your pages and write in good order;
Write, write, scribbler and driveller,
Why leave such margins?—come nearer the border.
Many a laurel dead flutters around your head,
Many a tome is your memento mori!
Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen,
Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory.
Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning,
Come with your tales full of gladness or woe;
Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning,