Than having a Four Act song to sing.

I leave the dress we know to-day;
On English ground my scene I set,
And wonder if I touch as yet,
What we have termed a "_Costume Play!_"

If I have over-writ, and laid,
It may be here, it may be there,
The fat too thickly on,--with care
To cut it down be not afraid.

But oh, if here and there I seem
To have half-said what I should say,
Give me the start--I'll fire away,
And keep up the poetic steam--

Ay! keep it up in lines that run
As glibly from the Laureate's pen,
That I shall by my fellow men
Be greeted with "That's TENNYSON!"

In short, it will not be easy, from such scanty information as the
Noble Rhymester has as yet given to the public, to say precisely what
sort of a play this promised comedy, "half in prose, half in blank
verse," will prove itself to be; but it is to be hoped with _The
Promise of May_ still fresh in the memory of many a playgoer, that
the forthcoming effort may not, after all, turn out to merit the
unpromising title of _The Disappointment of December_.