A Prologue for Some Country Lads, Performing the Devil of a Wife

In days of yore, when round the jovial board,
With harmless mirth, and social plenty stor'd,
Our parent Britons quaff'd their nut-brown ale,
And carols sung, or told the Christmas tale;
In struts St George, old England's champion knight,
With hasty steps, impatient to recite
"How he had kill'd the dragon, once in fight."

From ev'ry side—from Troy—from ancient Greece,
Princes pour in to swell the motley piece;
And while their deeds of prowess they rehearse,
The flowing bowl rewards their hobbling verse.

Intent to raise this evening's cordial mirth,
Like theirs, our simple stage play comes to birth.
Our want of art we candidly confess,
But give you nature in her homespun dress;
No heroes here—no martial men of might!
A cobler is the champion of to-night;
His straps, more fam'd than George's lance of old,
For it can tame that dragoness, a scold;
Indulgent, then, support the cobler's cause,
And tho' he mayn't deserve it, smile applause.