PROLOGUE TO THE BEGGARS BUSH. Spoken at WYNNSTAY. Christmas, 1778

The Muse, that charms the polish'd City now, Deriv'd her birth from rusticks and the plow. Their labours o'er, the honest country folks Indulg'd in laughter, and enjoy'd their jokes; Found mirth the Lethe of the troubled soul, And bath'd their sorrows in the genial bowl; Still winding-up, well-pleas'd, the toilsome 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. she creeps. Who can in hospitality surpass us? There our Welch Mountains tow'r o'er Mount Parnassus. Oh welcome then the Muse! for She who brings A harmless laugh robs Grief of half her stings. While Time arrests his Scythe, and claps his Wings. Tho' in poor Beggars' Weeds the Nymph is drest, Beaumont and Fletcher usher 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 stand trembling with dismay? What tho' they mar the scenes they wish to play? Unskill'd their anxious terrors to conceal, Their very aukwardness denotes their zeal. Good Humour too the joyous season guides, Quaffs at your tables, chats by your firesides. The Bellman, carolling his clumsy rhyme, You dub the Bard and Minstrel of the time. Swear then that many a Roscius plays to-night, Tho' We should act still worse than Bellmen write!