Lord Byron 



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