Yet tho' so polish'd FLORIO'S breeding,
Think him not ignorant of reading;
For he, to keep him from the vapours,
Subscrib'd at HOOKHAM'S, saw the papers;
Was deep in Poet's-corner wit,
Knew what was in Italics writ;
Explain'd fictitious names at will,
Each gutted syllable cou'd fill;
There oft, in paragraphs, his name
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame,
Tho' yet they serv'd but to apprize
Of buttons' form, or buckles' size.
He studied while he dress'd, for true 'tis
He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties,
Abregés, Dictionnaires, Recueils,
Mercures, Journaux, Extraits, and Feuilles:
No work in substance now is follow'd,
The Chemic Extract only's swallow'd.
He lik'd those literary cooks
Who skim the cream of others' books,
And ruin half an Author's graces,
By plucking bons-mots from their places;
He wonders any writing sells,
But these spic'd mushrooms and morells;
His palate these alone can touch,
Where every mouthful is
Of each new Play he saw a part,
And all the  had by heart;
He found whatever they produce
Is fit for conversation-use;
Is ever ready for display;
A page would prime him for a day:
They cram not with a mass of knowledge,
Which smacks of toil, and smells of college,
Which in the memory useless lies,
And only makes men — good and wise.