Provok'd, in loud complaints to you they cry :
Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die!

Forfake your filks for stuffs; nor think it strange,
To shift your cloaths, fince you delight in change.
One thing with freedom I'll prefume to tell-
The men will like you every bit as well.

See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff;
And, by my troth, I think I 'm fine enough :
My wife admires me more, and swears the never,
In any dress, beheld me look fo clever.
And, if a man be better in fuch ware,
What great advantage must it give the fair !
Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds:
Silks come from maggots, callicoes from weeds :
Hence 'tis by fad experience that we find

Ladies in filks to vapours much inclin'd-
And what are they but maggots in the mind?
For which I think it reason to conclude

That cloaths may change our temper like our food.
Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes
Too much about the party-colour'd dyes:
Although the lustre is from you begun,
We fee the rainbow, and neglect the fun.

How sweet and innocent's the country maid,
With finall expence in native wool array'd;
Who copies from the fields her homely green,
While by her shepherd with delight the 's feen!
Should our fair ladies dress like her in wool,
How much more lovely, and how beautiful,

P3

}

:

Withour

Without their Indian drapery, they 'd prove,
Whilft wool would help to warm us into love!
Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece,
We 'd all contend to gain the Golden Fleece!

EPILOGUE, BY THE DEAN.

W

Spoken by Mr. GRIFFITH.

HO dares affirm this is

no pious age,

When charity begins to tread the stage?
When actors, who, at best, are hardly favers,
Will give a night of benefit to Weavers ?
Stay-let me fee, how finely will it found!
Imprimis, From his Grace * an hundred pound.
Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benéfactors;
And then comes in the item of the actors.
Item, The actors freely gave a day-
The Poet had no more who made the Play.

But whence this wondrous charity in Players?
They learnt it not at Sermons, or at Prayers :
Under the rofe, fince here are none but friends,
(To own the truth) we have fome private ends.
Since waiting-women, like exacting jades,
Hold up the prices of their old brocades;
We 'll drefs in manufactures made at home;
Equip our'kings and generals at The Comb †.

* Abp. King.

+ A ftreet famous for Woollen Manufactures.

We'll

'We 'll rig from Meath-ftreet Ægypt's haughty queen,

And Antony shall court her in ratteen.
In blue shalloon shall Hannibal be clad,
And Scipio trail an Irish purple plaid.
In drugget dreft, of thirteen pence a yard,
See Philip's fon amidst his Perfian guard;
And proud Roxana, fir'd with jealous rage,
With fifty yards of crape shall sweep the stage.
In short, our kings and princesses within
Are all refolv'd this project to begin;
And you, our fubjects, when you here refort,
Muft imitate the fashion of the Court.

Oh! could I fee this audience clad in fluff,
Though money's fearce, we should have trade enough:
But chintze, brocades, and lace, take all away,
And fcarce a crown is left to fee a play.
Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs
Between the Weavers and us Play-house Kings;
But Wit and Weaving had the fame beginning;
Pallas first taught us Poetry and Spinning:
And, next, observe how this alliance fits,
For Weavers now are just as poor as Wits:
Their brother quill-men, workers for the stage,
For forry stuff can get a crown a page;
But Weavers will be kinder to the Players,
And fell for twenty-pence a yard of theirs.
And, to your knowledge, there is often lefs in
The Poet's wit, than in the Player's dreffing.

A POEM, BY DR. DELANY,
On the preceding PROLOGUE and EPILOGUE.
"Fæmineo generi tribuantur."

THE Mufes, whom the richeft filks array,
Refufe to fling their shining gowns away :.
The pencil cloaths the Nine in bright brocades,
And gives each colour to the pictur'd maids;
Far above mortal-dress the fifters shine,
Pride in their Indian robes, and must be fine.
And fhall two Bards in concert rhyme and huff,
And fret these Mufes with their Play-houfe stuff?
The Player in mimic piety may storm,
Deplore the Comb, and bid her Heroes arm :
The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage,
May curse the Belles and Chintzes of the age:
Yet ftill the Artist Worm her Silk shall share,
And fpin her thread of life in service of the fair.

The Cotton-plant, whom fatire cannot blaft,
Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last;
Like yours, ye Fair, her fame from cenfure grows,
Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes:
Your injur'd plant shall meet a loud defence,
And be the emblem of your innocence.

Some Bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a Weaver,

Penn'd the low Prologue, to return a favour :
Some neighbour Wit, that would be in the vogue,
Work'd with his friend, and wove the Epilogue.

Who

Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays,
For fuch Wool-gathering Sonnetteers as these ?
Hence then, ye homefpun Witlings, that perfuade
Mifs Cloe to the fashion of her maid.

Shall the wide Hoop, that fstandard of the town,
Thus act subservient to a Poplin Gown?

Who'd fmell of wool all over? 'Tis enough
The under-petticoat be made of stuff.

Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May,
When the fields dress'd in flowers appears fo gay!
And shall not Miss be flower'd as well as they?

}

In what weak colours would the plaid appear,

Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair!
The skin, that vies with filk, would fret with stuff;
Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough?
Ye knowing Fair, how eminent that bed,
Where the Chintze diamonds with the Silken Thread,

Where rustling curtains call the curious eye,
And boaft the streaks and paintings of the sky!
Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full;
And all this for the benefit of wool!

"But where," say they, "fhall we bestow these "Weavers,

"That fpread our streets, and are fuch piteous cravers?"*"
The Silk-worms (brittle beings!) prone to fate,
Demand their care to make their webs complete :
These may they tend, their promises receive;
We cannot pay too much for what they give!