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 crape 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,