PAPER: A POEM.
SOME wit of old—ſuch wits of old there were—
Whoſe hints ſhow'd meaning, whoſe alluſions care,
By one brave ſtroke to mark all human-kind,
Call'd clear blank paper ev'ry infant mind;
When ſtill, as opening ſenſe her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a ſeal, or vice a blot.
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan puſue.
I (can you pardon my preſumption), I—
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the papers various wants produce,
The wants of faſhion, elegance, and uſe,
Men are as various: and, if right I ſcan,
Each ſort of paper repreſents ſome man.
Pray note the fop—half powder and half lace—
Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place:
He's he gilt-paper, which apart you ſtore,
And lock from vulgar hands in the ’ſcrutoire.
Mechanics, ſervants, farmers, and ſo forth,
Are copy-paper, of inferior worth;
Leſs priz'd, more uſeful, for your deſk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at ev'ry need.
The wretch whom av'rice bids to pinch and ſpare.
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarſe brown paper; ſuch as pedlars chooſe
To wrap up wares, which better men will uſe.
Take next the miſer's contraſt, who deſtroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He’s a true ſinking-paper, paſt all doubt.
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