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]

We'll rig from Meath Street Egypt'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 drest, of thirteen pence a-yard, See Philip's son amidst his Persian guard; And proud Roxana, fired with jealous rage, With fifty yards of c.r.a.pe shall sweep the stage.

In short, our kings and princesses within Are all resolved this project to begin; And you, our subjects, when you here resort, Must imitate the fashion of the court.

O! could I see this audience clad in stuff, Though money's scarce, we should have trade enough: But chintz, brocades, and lace, take all away, And scarce a crown is left to see the play.

Perhaps you wonder whence this friendship springs Between the weavers and us playhouse kings; But wit and weaving had the same beginning; Pallas[3] first taught us poetry and spinning: And, next, observe how this alliance fits, For weavers now are just as poor as wits: Their brother quillmen, workers for the stage, For sorry stuff can get a crown a page; But weavers will be kinder to the players, And sell for twenty pence a yard of theirs.

And to your knowledge, there is often less in The poet's wit, than in the player's dressing.

[Footnote 1: Archbishop King.]

[Footnote 2: A street famous for woollen manufactures.--_F_.]

[Footnote 3: See the fable of Pallas and Arachne in Ovid, "Metamorph.,"

lib. vi, applied in "A proposal for the Universal use of Irish Manufacture," "Prose Works," vii, at p. 21.--_W. E. B._]

ANSWER TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE.

IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY.

Femineo generi tribuantur.

The Muses, whom the richest silks array, Refuse to fling their shining gowns away; The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades, And gives each colour to the pictured maids; Far above mortal dress the sisters shine, Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine.

And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff And fret these Muses with their playhouse 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 still the artist worm her silk shall share, And spin her thread of life in service of the fair.

The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast, Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: Your injured 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 weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, For such wool-gathering sonnetteers as these?

Hence, then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid.

Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town, Thus act subservient to a poplin gown?

Who'd smell 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 appear so 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 silk, would fret with stuff; Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough?

Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed, Where the chintz diamonds with the silken thread, Where rustling curtains call the curious eye, And boast 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, "shall we bestow these weavers, That spread our streets, and are such piteous cravers?"

The silk-worms (brittle beings!) p.r.o.ne 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!

ON GAULSTOWN HOUSE

THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ.

BY DR. DELANY

'Tis so old and so ugly, and yet so convenient, You're sometimes in pleasure, though often in pain in't; 'Tis so large, you may lodge a few friends with ease in't, You may turn and stretch at your length if you please in't; 'Tis so little, the family live in a press in't, And poor Lady Betty[1] has scarce room to dress in't; 'Tis so cold in the winter, you can't bear to lie in't, And so hot in the summer, you're ready to fry in't; 'Tis so brittle, 'twould scarce bear the weight of a tun, Yet so staunch, that it keeps out a great deal of sun; 'Tis so crazy, the weather with ease beats quite through it, And you're forced every year in some part to renew it; 'Tis so ugly, so useful, so big, and so little, 'Tis so staunch and so crazy, so strong and so brittle, 'Tis at one time so hot, and another so cold, It is part of the new, and part of the old; It is just half a blessing, and just half a curse-- wish then, dear George, it were better or worse.

[Footnote 1: Daughter of the Earl of Drogheda, and married to George Rochfort, Esq.--_F._]

THE COUNTRY LIFE

PART OF A SUMMER SPENT AT GAULSTOWN HOUSE, THE SEAT OF GEORGE ROCHFORT, ESQ.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The Baron, Lord Chief Baron Rochfort.

_George_, his eldest son.

_Nim_, his second son, John, so called from his love of hunting.

_Dan_, Mr. Jackson, a parson.

Gaulstown, the Baron's seat.

_Sheridan_, a pedant and pedagogue.

_Delany_, chaplain to Sir Constantine Phipps, when Lord Chancellor of Ireland.

Dragon, the name of the boat on the ca.n.a.l.

Dean Percival and his wife, friends of the Baron and his lady.

Thalia, tell, in sober lays, How George, Nim, Dan, Dean,[1] pa.s.s their days; And, should our Gaulstown's wit grow fallow, Yet _Neget quis carmina Gallo?_ Here (by the way) by Gallus mean I Not Sheridan, but friend Delany.

Begin, my Muse! First from our bowers We sally forth at different hours; At seven the Dean, in night-gown drest, Goes round the house to wake the rest; At nine, grave Nim and George facetious, Go to the Dean, to read Lucretius;[2]

At ten my lady comes and hectors And kisses George, and ends our lectures; And when she has him by the neck fast, Hauls him, and scolds us, down to breakfast.

We squander there an hour or more, And then all hands, boys, to the oar; All, heteroc.l.i.te Dan except, Who never time nor order kept, But by peculiar whimseys drawn, Peeps in the ponds to look for sp.a.w.n: O'ersees the work, or Dragon rows, Or mars a text, or mends his hose; Or--but proceed we in our journal-- At two, or after, we return all: From the four elements a.s.sembling, Warn'd by the bell, all folks come trembling, From airy garrets some descend, Some from the lake's remotest end; My lord and Dean the fire forsake, Dan leaves the earthy spade and rake; The loiterers quake, no corner hides them And Lady Betty soundly chides them.

Now water brought, and dinner done; With "Church and King" the ladies gone.

Not reckoning half an hour we pa.s.s In talking o'er a moderate gla.s.s.