Great cry, and little wool—­is now become
The plague and proverb of the weaver’s loom;
No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp;
Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp. 
Provoked, in loud complaints to you they cry;
Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die! 
Forsake your silks for stuff’s; nor think it strange
To shift your clothes, since 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 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 she never,
In any dress, beheld me look so clever. 
And if a man be better in such ware,
What great advantage must it give the fair! 
Our wool from lambs of innocence proceeds;
Silks come from maggots, calicoes from weeds;
Hence ’tis by sad experience that we find
Ladies in silks to vapours much inclined—­
And what are they but maggots in the mind? 
For which I think it reason to conclude,
That clothes 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 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. 
Peers, clergy, gentry, all are benefactors;
And then comes in the item of the actors.
Item, The actors freely give a day—­
The poet had no more who made the play. 
  But whence this wondrous charity in players? 
They learn it not at sermons, or at prayers: 
Under the rose, since here are none but friends,
(To own the truth) we have some private ends. 
Since waiting-women, like exacting jades,
Hold up the prices of their old brocades;
We’ll dress in manufactures made at home;
Equip our kings and generals at the Comb.[2]