The part of Amelia has been a very particular object of my solicitude and alteration: the same situations which the author gave her remain, but almost all the dialogue of the character I have changed: the forward and unequivocal manner in which she announces her affection to her lover, in the original, would have been revolting to an English audience: the passion of love, represented on the stage, is certain to be insipid or disgusting, unless it creates smiles or tears: Amelia’s love, by Kotzebue, is indelicately blunt, and yet void of mirth or sadness: I have endeavoured to attach the attention and sympathy of the audience by whimsical insinuations, rather than coarse abruptness—the same woman, I conceive, whom the author drew, with the self-same sentiments, but with manners adapted to the English rather than the German taste; and if the favour in which this character is held by the audience, together with every sentence and incident which I have presumed to introduce in the play, may be offered as the criterion of my skill, I am sufficiently rewarded for the task I have performed. In stating the foregoing circumstances relating to this production, I hope not to be suspected of arrogating to my own exertions only, the popularity which has attended “The Child of Love,” under the title of “Lovers’ Vows,”—the exertions of every performer engaged in the play deservedly claim a share in its success; and I must sincerely thank them for the high importance of their aid. PROLOGUE. WRITTEN BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ. _Spoken by Mr. MURRAY._ Poets have oft’ declared, in doleful strain, That o’er dramatic tracks they beat in vain, Hopeless that novelty will spring to sight; For life and nature are exhausted quite. Though plaints like these have rung from age to age, Too kind are writers to desert the stage; And if they, fruitless, search for unknown prey, At least they dress _old game_ a _novel way_; But such lamentings should be heard no more, For modern taste turns Nature out of door; Who ne’er again her former sway will boast, Till, to complete her works, _she starts a ghost_. If such the mode, what can we hope to-night, Who rashly dare approach without a sprite? No dreadful cavern, no midnight scream, No rosin flames, nor e’en one flitting gleam. Nought of the charms so potent to invite The monstrous charms of terrible delight. Our present theme the German Muse supplies, But rather aims to soften than surprise. Yet, with her woes she strives some smiles to blend, Intent as well to cheer as to amend: On her own native soil she knows the art To charm the fancy, and to touch the heart. If, then, she mirth and pathos can express, Though less engaging in an English dress, Let her from British hearts no peril fear, But, as a STRANGER*, find a welcome here. * Hamlet. LOVERS’ VOWS. ACT I. SCENE I. _A high road, a town at a distance—A small inn on one side of the road—A cottage on the other._