I only drew empty houses, in this cynical latter age.
"Anything failed again? Nay, what is there left to fail?—
'Harold,' or 'Mary,' or 'May,' or even the 'Lover's Tale?'
What am I saying, and why? fails!—that must be a lie!
Fails—what fails?—not my faith in play writing, not I.
"Why will you call up here?—who are you?—what have you heard
That you all sit so solemn and quiet?—nobody's spoken a word.
O, to make of me—yes, his lordship! none of the scribbling crew
Have crept in by their rhymes before, as I have dared to do.
"Ah! you that have lived so soft, what do you know of the spite,