TO MR. SIMPSON,
MANAGER OF THE PARK THEATRE.
’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;
