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.