Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 7.djvu/82

48 I had a heavy loss by Manuel—

Too lucky if it prove not annual,—

And Sotheby, with his 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 advertised, 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 altered since last year his pen is,

I think he's lost his wits at Venice.

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 MS., with Hookham Frere,