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 everybody 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, nowadays.
          I had a heavy loss by Manuel --
          Too lucky if it prove not annual--
          And Sotheby, with his damn'd Orestes
          (Which, by the way, the old bore's best is),
          Has lain so very long on hand
          That I despair of all demand;
          I've advertis'd--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,
          Or drain'd his brains away as stallion
          To some dark-eyed and warm Italian;
          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 MSS 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 today,
          All clever men who make their way:
          Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton and Chantrey
          Are all partakers of my pantry.
          They're at this moment in discussion
          On poor De Sta{:e}l's late dissolution.
          Her book, they say, was in advance--
          Pray Heaven she tell the truth of France!
          'Tis said she certainly was married
          To Rocca, and had twice miscarried,
          No--not miscarried, I opine--
          But brought to bed at forty nine.
          Some say she died a Papist; some
          Are of opinion that's a hum;
          I don't know that--the fellow, Schlegel,
          Was very likely to inveigle
          A dying person in compunction
          To try the extremity of unction.
          But peace be with her! for a woman
          Her talents surely were uncommon.
          Her publisher (and public too)
          The hour of her demise may rue,
          For never more within his shop he--
          Pray--was she not interr'd at Coppet?
          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.
          My hands are full--my head so busy,
          I'm almost dead--and always dizzy;
          And so, with endless truth and hurry,
          Dear Doctor, I am yours,

          JOHN MURRAY