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