The bungling practice of our hasty school

You raise into a maxim and a rule.

Manager.

Manager.

All very well!—but when a man

Has forged a scheme, and sketched a plan

He must have sense to use the tool

The best that for the job is fit.

Consider what soft wood you have to split,

And who the people are for whom you write.

One comes to kill a few hours o’ the night;

Another, with his drowsy wits oppressed,

An over-sated banquet to digest;

And not a few, whom least of all we choose,

Come to the play from reading the Reviews.

They drift to us as to a masquerade;

Mere curiosity wings their paces;

The ladies show themselves, and show their silks and laces,

And play their parts well, though they are not paid.

What dream you of, on your poetic height?

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