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 HAVE been every night, whether empty or crowded,
 * And taken my seat in your Box No. 3;

In a sort of poetical Scotch mist I’m shrouded,
 * As the far-famed Invisible Girl used to be.

As a critic professed, ’tis my province to flout you,
 * And hiss as they did at poor Charley’s34 Macheath;

But all is so right and so proper about you,
 * That I’m forced to be civil in spite of my teeth.

In your dresses and scenery, classic and clever;
 * Such invention! such blending of old things and new!

Let Kemble’s proud laurels be withered forever!
 * Wear the wreath, my dear Simpson, ’tis fairly your due.

How apropos now was that street scene in Brutus,
 * Where the sign “Coffee-House” in plain English was writ!