At the Abbey Theatre by W.B. Yeats

Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case. / When we are high and airy hundreds say / That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place, / While those same hundreds mock another day / Because we have made our art of common things, / So bitterly, you'd dream they longed to look / All their lives through into some drift of wings. / You've dandled them and fed them from the book / And know them to the bone; impart to us -- / We'll keep the secret -- a new trick to please. / Is there a bridle for this Proteus / That turns and changes like his draughty seas? / Or is there none, most popular of men, / But when they mock us that we mock again?