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What a provoking intrusion! Just as I had worked myself into the true spirit of poetry!� I shan’t recover my ideas this half hour. ’Tis a most barbarous thing that a man’s retirement cannot be sacred. (Sits down to write.) Ye fighting,� no, that was not it,� ye � ye � ye � O curse it, (Stamping.) if I have not forgot all I was going to say! That unfeeling, impenetrable fool has lost me more ideas than would have made a fresh man’s reputation. I’d rather have given a hundred guineas than have seen her. I protest, I was upon the point of making as good a poem as any in the language,� my numbers flowed,� my thoughts were ready,� my words glided,� but now, all is gone!� all gone & evaporated! (Claps his hand on his forehead.) Here’s nothing left! Nothing in the world!� What shall I do to compose myself? Suppose I read?� Why, where the deuce are all the things gone? (Looking over his papers.) O, here,� I wonder how my epigram will read today,� I think I’ll show it to Censor,� he has seen nothing like it of late;� I’ll pass it off for some dead poet’s, or he’ll never do it justice;� let’s see, suppose Pope?� no, it’s too smart for Pope,� Pope never wrote any thing like it!� well then, suppose �