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His horrid caricature of hunchbacked Richard,Or his bestial libel on heroic Joan."Now, sir, I don't endorse all Robert says,(His pen, I fancy, masters him at times,And writes down things which no one is astonishedMore than their author is to see in print:)But I do think that if you take awayHis six or seven masterpieces, ShakespeareFalls to a level which may well be reached,Or overleaped even by your humble servant.But let that pass; comparisons are odious,And I'm content posterity should judgeBetween me and the Elizabethan bard:That is, I should be well content could IBut get my plays produced upon the stage,Or could I even find a publisherWith enterprise enough to make them knownTo the great British public. Genius, sir,Both manager and publisher are blind to,And so my plays remain unknown, unacted,And I make but a poor precarious livingBy writing songs (at half a crown a time)For music-hall professionals. Dame FortuneHas never yet your humble servant favoured,And at the present moment worse than usualShe's treating me. Behold! my purse containsNot even a copper coin. I know notHow to replenish it. I should be in luckIf some kind soul would lend me half a crown.Thanks, friend; my lucky star must rise some day,I shan't be always penniless, unknown,And down at heel; depend on't I'll repay you.
1886-1899
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