The END of WRITING; an Imitation of some French Verses: Addressed to Authors

These fair sheets of foolscap which thus ye are soiling, Still cutting, and scribbling, and blotting, and spoiling. This paper, I say, had an honest beginning, Being born of good flax, and begotten by spinning; To the loom in due time, and the ragshop it past, Into leaves of fine foolscap converted at last. Now, seiz'd by the Wits, it incessently teems Or with visions in verse, or political dreams; Till his Worship, just rous'd from his afternoon's doze, With a pipe of Virginia regaleth his nose: Then twisted, and twirl'd, and condemn'd to the taper, In a puff is consum'd this unfortunate paper. It is thus, my good friends, that Truth setteth before ye, Of your boasted employment—the tragical story: Your choicest productions, whate'er be their name, Will end, at the best, in the vapour of fame: That vapour, my friends, do ye think it will stay? — Like his Worship's last whiff, it will vanish away.