Turn pleasure into pain.
Christmas quaffs our English wines,
Nor Gascoigne juice, nor French declines,
Nor liquor of Anjou:
He puts th’ insidious goblet round,
Till all the guests in sleep are drown’d
Then wakes ’em with the tabor’s sound,
And plays the prank anew.
Lordings, it is our host’s command,
And Christmas joins him hand in hand,