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.