PROLOGUES

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WYNN STAY.

PROLOGUE TO THE BEGGARS BUSH.. Spoken at WYNNSTAY.

Christmas, 1778.

T

HE Mufe, that charms the polish'd City now,

Deriv'd her birth from rufticks and the plow. Their labours o'er, the honeft country folks Indulg'd in laughter, and enjoy'd their jokes ; Found mirth the Lethe of the troubled foul, And bath'd their forrows in the genial bowl; Still winding-up, well-pleas'd, the toilfome year. With sports and games, religion, and good cheer.

Now, at our call, from London, routs, and drums, Back to her rural home Thalia comes. While Harlequin in town the Christmas keeps, To Wales unheeded and incog. the creeps.

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Whe

Who can in hofpitality furpass us?

There our Welch Mountains tow'r o'er Mount

Parnaffus.

Oh welcome then the Mufe! for She who brings
A harmless laugh robs Grief of half her fings.
While Time arrefts hisScythe, and claps his Wings.
Tho' in poor Beggars' Weeds the Nymph is dreft,
Beaumont and Fletcher ufher in the guest.
Beaumont and Fletcher! Twins in wit and fame,
Who mix their own with Shakespeare's kindred flame.

Yes, you will welcome her, and kindly deign
To chear the humble followers in her train:
What tho' our Play'rs ftand trembling with difmay?
What tho' they mar the fcenes they wish to play?
Unfkill'd their anxious terrors to conceal,
Their very aukwardnefs denotes their zeal.
Good Humour too the joyous feafon guides,
Quaffs at your tables, chats by your firefides.
The Bellman, carolling his clumsy rhyme,
You dub the Bard and Minstrel of the time.
Swear then that many a Rofcius plays to-night,
Tho' We should act still worse than Bellmen write!

FAREWELL

FAREWELL EPILOGUE,

Spoken at WYNNSTAY, after the Reprefentation of CYMBELINE, and THE SPANISH BARBER.

S

January 22, 1779.

INCE the new post-horse tax, I dare engage That fome folks here have travell'd in the Stage: Jamm'd in at midnight, in cold winter weather, The crouded paffengers are glew'd together. O'er many a rut, and ill-pav'd causeway jumbling, They pass their Journey, juftling, jolting, grumbling. Sometimes a pleasing prospect ftrikes the eye, Sometimes they chuckle when a good inn's nigh; 'Till many a fquabble, fome endearments paft, They part well-pleas'd, and with regret at laft.

So in our Stage, in which this Christmas Tide As infide paffengers you've deign'd to ride, You thought yourselves perhaps not well convey'd, The cattle broken-winded, roads ill made; Yet fond of travel, fome kind looks you bend Tow'rds fellow trav'llers at your journey's end.

May each, whom pleasure call'd awhile to roam,

Find double pleasure when arriv'd at home!

May

May each kind husband meet a wife more kind,
And each fond wife a fonder husband find!

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Meanwhile, Oh, think not Us beneath your care, Nor drive your humble drivers to despair! Shall Pofthumus, his Imogen reftor'd, Be doom'd to wail his destiny deplor'd? Shall Jachimo, who oft your cares beguil❜d, Be left to cry because you never smil'd? No-you will grant a smile-nor only kind To honeft Coachmen, cheer ev'n those behind: For who can well deny, if they but afk it, To pity the poor devils in the Basket?

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Rofina all refiftlefs pleads her cause,
And with her Siren-fong extorts applause;
But give poor Doctor Bartholo a plaister,
And with Allegros cheer your Mufick Master!
To mirth let Argus, Tall Boy, ftir your bloods,
Nor leave the Spanish Barber in the Suds!
And if youv'e past your time with some delight,
Bid Bafil go to bed, and bid Good Night!

PROLOGUE

PROLOGU

Spoken at WYNNSTAY.

Christmas, 1780.

E,

PLE

LEASURE, dear Pleasure, is the genʼral aim, Various the means, but ftill the ends the fame Partial to that he feeks with eager hafte,

;

Each damns alike his neighbour's want of Tafte.
One thro' the Devils-Ditch purfues the Race,
One breaks his neck in following the Chace;
Come, here' sa Bumper! fays Sir John, half drunk,
Damn ye, d'ye flinch? have ye no Soul, no Spunk?
Away with bufinefs, and confound all thinking,
No joy in life to be compar'd to drinking!

Yes, fays Lord Feeble, verging on threescore,
I like a Bottle, but I love a Whore!
For me I left poor little Sally weeping,
And have befides three other girls in keeping.
Stick you to Bacchus, and I'll ftick to Venus,
And we'll divide the Two Gay Pow'rs between us.

The joys of Drefs alone Sir Fopling feels,

And all his paffions center in red heels;

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