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