Analysis of Dear Doctor, I have Read your Play

Dear Doctor, I have read your play,
   Which is a good one in its way,
   Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels,
   And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
   With tears that, in a flux of grief,
   Afford hysterical relief
   To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
   Which your catastrophe convulses.
   I like your moral and machinery;
  Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery!
  Your dialogue is apt and smart;
  The play's concoction full of art;
  Your hero raves, your heroine cries,
  All stab, and everybody dies;
  In short, your tragedy would be
  The very thing to hear and see;
  And for a piece of publication,
  If I decline on this occasion,
  It is not that I am not sensible
  To merits in themselves ostensible,
  But--and I grieve to speak it--plays
  Are drugs--mere drugs, Sir, nowadays.
  I had a heavy loss by  Manuel --
  Too lucky if it prove not annual--
  And Sotheby, with his damn'd  Orestes
  (Which, by the way, the old bore's best is),
  Has lain so very long on hand
  That I despair of all demand;
  I've advertis'd--but see my books,
  Or only watch my shopman's looks;
  Still  Ivan ,  Ina and such lumber
  My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.
  There's Byron too, who once did better,
  Has sent me--folded in a letter--
  A sort of--it's no more a drama
  Than  Darnley ,  Ivan or  Kehama :
  So alter'd since last year his pen is,
  I think he's lost his wits at Venice,
  Or drain'd his brains away as stallion
  To some dark-eyed and warm Italian;
  In short, Sir, what with one and t'other,
  I dare not venture on another.
  I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
  The coaches through the street so thunder!
  My room's so full; we've Gifford here
  Reading MSS with Hookham Frere,
  Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
  Of some of our forthcoming articles,
  The  Quarterly --ah, Sir, if you
  Had but the genius to review!
  A smart critique upon St. Helena,
  Or if you only would but tell in a
  Short compass what--but, to resume;
  As I was saying, Sir, the room--
  The room's so full of wits and bards,
  Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres and Wards,
  And others, neither bards nor wits--
  My humble tenement admits
  All persons in the dress of Gent.,
   From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.
  A party dines with me today,
  All clever men who make their way:
  Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton and Chantrey
  Are all partakers of my pantry.
  They're at this moment in discussion
  On poor De Sta{:e}l's late dissolution.
  Her book, they say, was in advance--
  Pray Heaven she tell the truth of France!
  'Tis said she certainly was married
  To Rocca, and had twice miscarried,
  No--not miscarried, I opine--
  But brought to bed at forty nine.
  Some say she died a Papist; some
  Are of opinion  that's a hum;
  I don't know that--the fellow, Schlegel,
  Was very likely to inveigle
  A dying person in compunction
  To try the extremity of unction.
  But peace be with her! for a woman
  Her talents surely were uncommon.
  Her publisher (and public too)
  The hour of her demise may rue,
  For never more within his shop he--
  Pray--was she not interr'd at Coppet?
  Thus run our time and tongues away;
  But, to return, Sir, to your play;
  Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal,
  Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill.
  My hands are full--my head so busy,
  I'm almost dead--and always dizzy;
  And so, with endless truth and hurry,
  Dear Doctor, I am yours,