Bad are the times Ladies and gentlemen Who once before my cage in thronging crescents Crowded, now honor operas, and then Ibsen, with their so highly valued presence. My boarders here are so in want of fodder That they reciprocally devour each other. How well off at the theater is a player, Sure of the meat upon his ribs, albeit His frightful hunger may tear him and he it And colleagues' inner cupboards be quite bare - Greatness in art we struggle to inherit.
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