it;
And with richest Margoux to wash down a tit-bit.
To wash oft his fine linen, so clean and so neat,
And to buy him much linen, to fence against sweat:
All which he deserves; for although all the day
He ofttimes is heavy, yet all night he's gay;
And if he rise early to watch for the state,
To keep up his spirits he'll sit up as late.
Thus, for these and more reasons, as before I did say
Hop has got all the money for our acting this play,
Which makes us poor actors look _je ne scai quoy_.

[Footnote 1: This piece, which relates, like the former, to the
avaricious demands which the Irish Secretary of State made upon the
company of players, is said, in the collection called "Gulliveriana," to
have been composed by Swift, and delivered by him at Gaulstown House. But
it is more likely to have been written by some other among the joyous
guests of the Lord Chief Baron, since it does not exhibit Swift's
accuracy of numbers.--_Scott_. Perhaps so, but the note to this
piece in "Gulliveriana" is "Spoken by the _Captain_, one evening, at the
end of a private farce, acted by gentlemen, for their own diversion at
_Gallstown_"; the "Captain" being Swift, as the leader of the "joyous
guests." This is very different from "composed."--_W. E. B._]

PROLOGUE[1]

TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS.
BY DR. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN BY MR. ELRINGTON. 1721

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 a