Life not only keeps fair Ladies from running out into
Expences, but is at the same time an actual Improvement. How memorable
would that Matron be, who should have it Inscribed upon her Monument,
'that she Wrought out the whole Bible in Tapestry, and died in a good
old Age, after having covered three hundred Yards of Wall in the
Mansion-House.'

The Premises being consider'd, I humbly submit the following Proposals
to all Mothers in _Great Britain_.

I. That no young Virgin whatsoever be allow'd to receive the Addresses
of her first Lover, but in a Suit of her own Embroidering.

II. That before every fresh Servant, she be oblig'd to appear with a
new Stomacher at the least.

III. That no one be actually married, till she hath the Child-bed
Pillows, &c. ready Stitched, as likewise the Mantle for the Boy quite
finished.

These Laws, if I mistake not, would effectually restore the decay'd Art
of Needle-work, and make the Virgins of _Great Britain_ exceedingly
Nimble-finger'd in their Business.

There is a memorable Custom of the _Grecian_ Ladies in this particular,
preserv'd in _Homer_, which I hope will have a very good Effect with my
Country-women. A Widow in Ancient Times could not, without Indecency,
receive a second Husband, till she had Woven a Shrowd for her deceased
Lord, or the next of Kin to him. Accordingly, the Chaste _Penelope_
having, as she thought, lost _Ulysses_ at Sea, she employed her time in
preparing a Winding-sheet for _Laertes_, the Father of her Husband. The
Story of her Web being very Famous, and yet not sufficiently known in
its several Circumstances, I shall give it to my Reader, as _Homer_
makes one of her Wooers relate it.

'Sweet Hope she gave to every Youth apart,
With well-taught Looks, and a deceitful Heart:
A Web she wove of many a slender Twine,
Of curious Texture, and perplext Design;
My Youths, she cry'd, my Lord but newly dead,
Forbear a while to court my widow'd Bed,
'Till I have wov'n, as solemn Vows require,
This Web, a Shrowd for poor_ Ulysses' _Sire.
His Limbs, when Fate the Hero's Soul demands,
Shall claim this Labour of his Daughter's Hands:
Lest all the Dames of Greece my Name despise,
While the great King without a Covering lies.

Thus she. Nor did my Friends mistrust the Guile.
All Day she sped the long laborious Toil:
But when the burning Lamps supply'd the Sun,
Each Night unravell'd what the Day begun.
Three live