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_A hint of what might be done by following the example of the Press_.
["More than one actor-manager during the past few months has been
searching round frantically in his efforts to find a new play."
_The Times_.]
Oh, have you marked upon the breeze
The wail of hunger which occurs
When starved theatrical lessees
Commune with hollow managers?
"Where is Dramatic Art?" they say;
"Can no one, _no one_, write a play?"
I cannot think why this should be,
This bitter plaint of sudden dearth;
To write a play would seem to me
Almost the easiest thing on earth.
Sometimes I feel that even I
Could do it if I chose to try.
What! can this Art be in its grave
Whose form was lately so rotund,
Whose strength was as a bull's and gave
No sign of being moribund?
I'm sure my facts are right, or how
Do you account for _Chu Chin Chow_?
As for the gods, their judgment shows
No loss of _flair_ for grace or wit;
We see the comic's ruby nose
Reduce to pulp the nightly pit,
Whose patrons, sound in head and heart,
Still love the loftiest type of Art.
Nor should the playwright fail for lack
Of matter, if with curious eyes
He follows in our Pressmen's track,
Who find the source of their supplies
In Life, that ever-flowing font,
And "give the public what they want.
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