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 ’M a friend to your theatre, oft have I told you, And a still warmer friend, Mr. Simpson, to you; And it gives me great pain, be assured, to behold you
 * Go fast to the devil, as lately you do.

We scarcely should know you were still in existence,
 * Were it not for the play-bills one sees in Broadway;

The newspapers all seem to keep at a distance;
 * Have your puffers deserted for want of their pay?

Poor Woodworth!19 his Chronicle died broken-hearted;
 * What a loss to the drama, the world, and the age!

And Coleman20 is silent since Philipps departed,
 * And Noah’s too busy to think of the stage.

Now, the aim of this letter is merely to mention
 * That, since all your critics are laid on the shelf,

Out of pure love for you, it is my kind intention
 * To take box No. 3, and turn critic myself.

Your ladies are safe—if you please you may say it,
 * Perhaps they have faults, but I’ll let them alone;