Chintzes are gawdy, and engage our eyes
Too much about the party-colour'd dyes;
Although the lustre is from you begun,
We see the rainbow, and neglect the sun.
How sweet and innocent's the country maid,
With small expense in native wool array'd;
Who copies from the fields her homely green,
While by her shepherd with delight she's seen!
Should our fair ladies dress like her, in wool
How much more lovely, and how beautiful,
Without their Indian drapery, they'd prove!
While wool would help to warm us into love!
Then, like the famous Argonauts of Greece,
We'll all contend to gain the Golden Fleece!
[Footnote 1: In connection with this Prologue and the Epilogue by the
Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish
Manufactures in "Prose Works," vol. vii.--_W. E. B._]
EPILOGUE
TO A BENEFIT PLAY, GIVEN IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS.
BY THE DEAN. SPOKEN BY MR. GRIFFITH
Who 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 see, how finely will it sound!
_Imprimis_, From his grace[1] a hundred pound.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182