Swift speaks directly to the struggling, penniless writers of London’s Grub Street, offering them a sly get-rich scheme. Their poems are so lifeless they’re barely worth the paper, but he has a cunning plan: print the verses with absurdly wide margins, dry the ink, and lend them to Alexander Pope, who famously hated wasting paper. Pope will cram the blank spaces with his own scribbles, and once the margins are filled, the writers call in the loan. Suddenly the worthless sheets are covered in Pope’s handwriting, so they can be sold to the unscrupulous publisher Curll for a handsome sum, passing Pope’s annotations off as their original draft. The whole thing drips with mischievous delight—the speaker is half co-conspirator, half gleeful needler of literary vanity. He mocks the hacks’ desperation, Pope’s scrupulous thrift, and the money-grubbing book trade all at once. The mood is wickedly playful, like a friend leaning in with a joke that cuts too close to the bone.
Advice to the Grub Street Verse-writers — Summary
Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, Not yet consign'd to paste; I know a trick to make you thrive; O, 'tis a quaint device: Your still-born poems shall revive, And scorn to wrap up spice. Get all your verses printed fair, Then let them well be dried; And Curll must have a special care To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing Pope; And when he sets to write, No letter with an envelope Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round, Why then recall your loan; Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, And swear they are your own.