PROLOGUE To the CHAPTER of ACCIDENTS, A Comedy written by Miss LEE, Spoken by Mr. PALMER. August, 1780

Long has the passive Stage, howe'er absurd, Been rul'd by Names, and govern'd by a Word. Some poor cant term, like magick spells can awe, And bind our realms, like a Dramatick law. When Fielding, Humour's fav'rite child appear'd, Low was the word—a word each author fear'd! 'Till chac'd at length, by Pleasantry's bright ray, Nature and Mirth resum'd their legal sway; And Goldsmith's Genius bask'd in open day.

No beggar, howe'er poor, a cur can lack; Poor Bards, of Critick Curs, can keep a pack. One yelper silenc'd, twenty barkers rise, And with new howls, their snarlings still disguise. Low banish'd, the word Sentiment succeeds: And at that shrine, the modern Playwright bleeds. Hard fate! but let each would-be Critick know, That Sentiments from genuine Feelings flow! Criticks! in vain declaim, and write, and rail: Nature, eternal Nature! will prevail. Give me the Bard, who makes me laugh and cry, Diverts and moves, and all, I scarce know why! Untaught by Commentators, French or Dutch, Passion still answers to th' electrick touch. Reason, like Falstaff, claims, when all is done, The honours of the field already won. To-night, our Author's is a mixt intent— Passion and Humour—Low and Sentiment: Smiling in tears—a Serio-comick Play— Sunshine and show'r—a kind of April-Day! A Lord, whose pride is in his honour plac'd; A Governor, with Av'rice not disgrac'd; An humble Priest! a Lady, and a Lover So full of virtue, some of it runs over. No temporary touches, no allusions To camps, reviews, and all our late confusions; No personal reflections, no sharp Satire, But a mere Chapter—from the Book of Nature. Wrote by a Woman too! the Muses now Few liberties to naughty Men allow; But like old maids on earth, resolv'd to vex, With cruel coyness treat the other sex.