PROLOGUE To LILLO's TRAGEDY of FATAL CURIOSITY, on its Revival at the THEATRE ROYAL in the HAY-MARKET, June…

Long since, beneath this humble roof, this Play, Wrought by true English Genius saw the day. Forth from this humble roof it scarce has stray'd; In prouder Theatres 'twas never play'd. There you have gap'd, and doz'd o'er many a piece, Patch'd up from France, or stol'n from Rome or Greece, Or made of shreds from Shakespeare's Golden Fleece. There Scholars, simple nature cast aside, Have trick'd their heroes out in Classick pride; No Scenes, where genuine Passion runs to waste, But all hedg'd in by shrubs of Modern Taste Each Tragedy laid out like garden grounds, One circling gravel marks its narrow bounds. Lillo's plantations were of Forest growth— Shakespeare's the same—Great Nature's hand in both! Give me a tale the passions to control, " Whose slightest word may harrow up the soul!" A magick potion, of charm'd drugs commixt, Where Pleasure courts, and Horror comes betwixt!

Such are the Scenes that we this night renew; Scenes that your fathers were well pleas'd to view. Once we half-paus'd—and while cold fears prevail, Strive with faint strokes to soften down the tale; But soon, attir'd in all its native woes, The Shade of Lillo to our Fancy rose. Check thy weak hand, it said, or seem'd to say, Nor of its manly vigour rob my Play! From British Annals I the story drew, And British Hearts shall feel, and bear it too. Pity shall move their souls, in spite of rules; And Terror takes no lesson from the Schools. Speak to their Bosoms, to their Feelings trust, You'll find their sentence generous and just.