"Dear Doctor, I have read your play, Which is a good one in its way,-- Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels With tears, that, in a flux of grief, Afford hysterical relief To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, Which your catastrophe convulses. "I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery! Your dialogue is apt and smart; The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and every body dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see: And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, But--and I grieve to speak it--plays Are drugs, mere drugs, sir--now-a-days. I had a heavy loss by 'Manuel,'-- Too lucky if it prove not annual,-- And S * *, with his 'Orestes,' (Which, by the by, the author's best is,) Has lain so very long on hand That I despair of all demand. I've advertised, but see my books, Or only watch my shopman's looks;-- Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. "There's Byron too, who once did better, Has sent me, folded in a letter, A sort of--it's no more a drama Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; So alter'd since last year his pen is, I think he's lost his wits at Venice. In short, sir, what with one and t'other, I dare not venture on another. I write in haste; excuse each blunder; The coaches through the street so thunder! My room's so full--we've Gifford here Reading MS., with Hookham Frere, Pronouncing on the nouns and particles Of some of our forthcoming Articles. "The Quarterly--Ah, sir, if you Had but the genius to review!-- A smart critique upon St. Helena, Or if you only would but tell in a Short compass what--but, to resume: As I was saying, sir, the room-- The room's so full of wits and bards, Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, And others, neither bards nor wits:-- My humble tenement admits All persons in the dress of gent., From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. "A party dines with me to-day, All clever men, who make their way; They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Stael's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advance-- Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! "Thus run our time and tongues away.-- But, to return, sir, to your play: Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill.