PROLOGUE, Spoken at WYNNSTAY. Christmas, 1780

Pleasure, dear Pleasure, is the gen'ral aim, Various the means, but still the ends the same; Partial to that he seeks with eager haste, Each damns alike his neighbour's want of Taste. One thro' the Devils-Ditch pursues the Race, One breaks his neck in following the Chace; Come, here' sa Bumper! says Sir John, half drunk, Damn ye, d'ye flinch? have ye no Soul, no Spunk? Away with business, and confound all thinking, No joy in life to be compar'd to drinking!

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

The joys of Dress alone Sir Fopling feels, And all his passions center in red heels; Or buoy'd by Vanity to reach his head, There with her feathers join his native lead.

Thus others' follies lightly touch'd and shewn, We hope, in turn, indulgence for our own. Now Fashion sends her liv'ried lacqueys out With cards to call all London to a Rout; Meanwhile to Antient Britons from Wynnstay Our Host distributes tickets for a Play, You then who deign for some few hours to quit Your fire-side humour, and domestick wit, Who though the weather's cold, and roads are rough, Leave your Hot-Cockles and your Blindman's Buff, With looks well pleas'd bring in the new-born year, And laughing join our Christmas Gambols here!