Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore—
“Tragedian, play no more!”
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from a Rimmel censer,
Swung by pretty girls, whose footfall tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch!” I cried; “pray who-hath sent thee? Hath some rival Macbeth lent thee
His spare ticket to content thee with fond memories a store,
Of the Macbeths seen of yore?”
“Croaker,” said I, “pray be civil, and of Irving speak no evil.
Whether rivalry hath brought thee or stage memories of yore,
Are you really not enchanted by this new Macbeth undaunted