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Old Rose is dead, that good old man, We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear an old blue coat All buttoned down before.

When this old cap was new 'Tis since two hundred years.

He was a wight of high renowne, And thosne but of a low degree; Itt's pride that putts the countrye downe, Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, By time subdues An horrid chasm disclosed.

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence.

Thou villain base, Know'st me not by my clothes? No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather. He made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that.

See where she comes, apparelled like the spring, Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king Of every virtue gives renown to men!

So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them.

And now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father's house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things; With scarfs and fans and double change of brav'ry, With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav'ry.

He will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a color she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield.

Now old Tredgortha's dead and gone, We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear an old grey coat, All buttoned down before.

She wears her clothes as if they were thrown on her with a pitchfork.

Attired to please herself: no gems of any kind She wore, nor aught of borrowed gloss in Nature's stead; And, then her long, loose hair flung round her head Fell carelessly behind.

So for thy spirit did devise Its Maker seemly garniture, Of its own essence parcel pure. From grave simplicities a dress, And reticent demureness, And love encinctured with reserve; Which the woven vesture would subserve. For outward robes in their ostents Should show the soul's habiliments. Therefore I say,--Thou'rt fair even so, But better Fair I use to know.

O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, And heightens ease with grace.

Her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire; Beyond the pomp of dress; for Loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd the most.

Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes.

She's adorned Amply, that in her husband's eye looks lovely,-- The truest mirror that an honest wife Can see her beauty in!