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

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

See I am drefs'd from top to toe in stuff;
And, by my troth, I think I'm fine enough:
My wife admires me more, and fwears she never,
In any drefs, beheld me look fo clever.

And, if a man be better in fuch ware,
What great advantage muft 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 reafon 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 luftre 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 fhepherd with delight the 's feen!
Should our fair ladies drefs like her in wool,
How much more lovely, and how beautiful,

P 3


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 !

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 savers,
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 benefactors;
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.

+Aftreet famous for Woollen Manufactures.


"We'll rig from Meath-street Egypt's haughty queen,

And Antony fhall court her in ratteen.
In blue fhalloon fhall 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 fhall fweep the stage.
In short, our kings and princeffes within
Are all refolv'd this project to begin;

And you, our fubjects, when you here refort,
Muft imitate the fafhion 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 flage,
For forry fuff 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.

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On the preceding PROLOGUE and EPILOGUE. "Fœmineo generi tribuantur.”

HE Mufes, whom the richeft filks array,


Refuse to fling their fhining gowns away:
The pencil cloaths the Nine in bright brocades,
And gives each colour to the pictur’d maids ;
Far above mortal-drefs the fifters fhine,

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 ftuff?
The Player in mimic piety may ftorm,
Deplore the Comb, and bid her Heroes arm:
The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage,

May curfe the Belles and Chintzes of the age:
Yet ftill the Artist Worm her Silk fhall share,
And fpin her thread of life in fervice of the fair.

The Cotton-plant, whom satire cannot blast,
Shall bloom the favourite of thefe 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, whofe 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 weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays,
For fuch Wool-gathering Sonnetteers as these?
Hence then, ye bhomefpun Witlings, that perfuade

Mifs Cloe to the fashion of her maid.

Shall the wide Hoop, that ftandard of the town,
Thus act fubfervient 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 juft in May,
When the fields drefs'd in flowers appears fo
And fhall not Mifs be flower'd as well as they?
In what weak colours would the plaid appear,
Work'd to a quilt, or ftudded in a chair!



The skin, that vies with filk, would fret with ftuff;
Or who could bear in bed a thing fo 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 ftreaks and paintings of the sky!
Of flocks they'd have your milky ticking full;
And all this for the benefit of wool!

"But where," fay 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!

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