But the Croaker, sitting lonely, in his cushioned chair spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; I was net a little fluttered,
And at last I feebly muttered, “Other Macbeths played before—”
“Kemble, Kean, Macready, Young,” he cried, “I saw them all of yore—
Won’t be equalled any more!”
Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken—
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his sole dramatic lore,
Caught from some Shakespearian master, when unmerciful disaster
Followed faster still and faster, as the crowd his parts ignore,