Classic Poem

Sober and grave was still the garb thy Muse put on,
No tawdry, careless, slattern dress,
Nor starch'd and formal with affectedness,
Nor the cast Mode and Fashion of the Court and Town:
But neat, agreeable and janty 'twas,
Well-fitted it sate close in every place,
And all became with an uncommon Air and Grace.
Rich, costly and substantial was the Stuff,
Not barely smooth, nor yet too coarsely rough:
No refuse ill-patch'd Shreds o'th' Schools,
The motly wear of read and learned Fools.
No French Commodity, which now so much do's take,
And our own better manufacture spoil;
Nor was it ought of forein Soil;
But staple all, and all of English growth and make:
What Flow'rs soe're of art it had, were found
No tinsel'd slight embroideries;
But all appear'd, either the native ground,
Or twisted, wrought and interwoven with the piece.