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. 
        My hands so 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.

     “P.S.  I’ve done the fourth and last Canto, which amounts to 133
     stanzas.  I desire you to name a price; if you don’t, I will; so I
     advise you in time.

     “Yours, &c.

     “There will be a good many notes.”

* * * * *