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HERE, friend, in the name of nonene, did you rake all this rubbih together?

Alas, poor Semele! the Thunderer’s blaze was too much for thee!—Mercy, good Sir: have ome conideration of thee poor hattered nerves. Relax the dignified everity of that tern brow a few folds: and let thoe oracular lips forbear to pout uch cutting contempt. I feel every bud of hope in my boom nipped by the frot of didain.—But, between friends, uppoe you unmak for a moment, and decend from your monthly tilts, that we may have a little confidential chat. We bookellers and you critics are, you know, to one Rh