We often had recourse to the flying leap,
To a black face have sometimes owed escape,
And Hounslow Heath has proved the worth of crape.
But how, you ask, can we e'er hope to soar.
Above these scenes, and rise to tragic lore?
Too oft, alas! we've forced the unwilling tear,
And petrified the heart with real fear.
Macbeth a harvest of applause will reap,
For some of us, I fear, have murdered sleep.
His lady, too, with grace will sleep and talk: