Prologue

Great cry, and little wool--is now becomeThe 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 strangeTo 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 findLadies 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 eyesToo 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 woolHow 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!

Dean which follows, see Swift's Papers relating to the use of Irish