It's very plain that if a thing's the fashion
Too much the fashion—if the people leap
To do it, or to be it, in a passion
Of haste and crowding, like a herd of sheep
Why then that thing becomes through imitation
Vulgar, excessive, obvious, and cheap.
No gentleman desires to be pursuing
What every Tom and Dick and Harry's doing.
Stranger, do you write books? I ask the question
Because I'm told that everybody writes
That what with scribbling, eating, and digestion
And proper slumber, all our days and nights
Are wholly filled. It seems an odd suggestion
But if you do write, stop it, leave the masses
Read me, and join the small selected classes.
