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And why an
honour'd ragged shirt, that shows,
Like tatter'd
ensigns, all its bodie's blows?
Should it be swathed
in a vest so dire,
It were enough to set the child on
fire;
Dishevell'd queen[s] should strip them of their
hair,
And in it mantle the new rising heir:
Nor do
I know ought worth to wrap it in,
Except my parchment
upper-coat of skin;
And then expect no end of its
chast tears,
That first was rowl'd in down, now furs
of bears.
But since to ladies 't hath a custome
been
Linnen to send, that travail and lye in;
To
the nine sempstresses, my former friends,
I su'd; but
they had nought but shreds and ends.
At last, the
jolli'st of the three times three
Rent th' apron from
her smock, and gave it me;
'Twas soft and gentle,
subt'ly spun, no doubt;
Pardon my boldnese, madam;
HERE'S THE CLOUT.
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