PROLOGUE.
What flocks of critics hover here to-day,
As vultures wait on armies for their prey,
All gaping for the carcase of a play!
With croaking notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying poets by the scent.
Ours gives himself for gone; you've watched your time:
He fights this day unarmed,—without his rhyme;—
And brings a tale which often has been told;