Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/210

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Spoken by Mr. . 1721.

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. Provok'd, in loud complaints to you they cry: Ladies, relieve the weavers: or they die! Forsake your silks for stuffs; 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: For