Classic Poem

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 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 dressed 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;
Silk comes from maggots, calicos are weeds;
Hence 'tis by sad experience that we find
Ladies in silks to vapors much inclined,
And what are they but maggots in the mind?
For which I think it reason to conclude,
That clothes may change our tempers like our food.
Chintzes are gaudy and engage our eyes
Too much about the parti-colored dyes.
Although the luster is from you begun,
We see the rainbow and neglect the sun.

How sweet and innocent's the country maid,
With small expense in native wool arrayed,
Who copies from the fields her homely green,
While by her shepherd with delight she's seen.
Should our fair ladies dress like her in wool,
How much more lovely and how beautiful
Without their Indian drapery they'd prove,
And wool would help to warm us into love.
Then like the famous argonauts of Greece,
We'd all contend to gain the Golden Fleece.