LXXV.

One hates an author that's _all author_--fellows In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; Of Coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquenched snuffings of the midnight taper.