Some angel told our inexperienced youth,

That, after all, that copy told the truth!

O Pen! What if thy paper purses hold

Some coin that never came from wisdom's mould!

What if thou writest countless reams on reams

Of manuscript, to trouble printers' dreams!

What if thy cheap and easy-wielded prongs,

Indite each year a hundred thousand songs,

In ink of various copiousness and shade—

On every subject Earth and Heaven have made!