To which our great-great-grandmothers would go in all their state,
And drag their time out drearily, for ’twas “legitimate,”
Was this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.
This play so old was writ throughout in blank verse ’stead of prose,
And in blank terms the characters detailed their loves and woes;
And there the audience sat it out, or took a quiet doze,
And roused themselves up vig’rously to see the dismal close
Of this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.
When winter brought the theatres that open’d house to all,
Although one score and ten its scenes, through each they yet would bawl: