Classic Poem

Your late kind Gift let me restore;
For I must never wear it more.
My mother cries, " What's here to do?
" A Crimson Velvet Cap for you!
" If to these Heights so soon you climb,
" You'll wear a Coachman's Cap in time:
" Perhaps on Palfry pace along,
" With ruffled Shirt, and Tete-moutton ;
" Banish the Woman from your Face,
" And let the Rake supply the Place;
" Delighted see the People stare,
" And ask each other what you are? "

If she goes on to this dull Tune,
Poor I must be a Quaker soon.
She'll scarcely let me wear a Knot;
But keeps me like a Hottentot ;
Says, Dressing plain, at small Expence,
Shews better Taste, and better Sense.
I'd take her Judgment, I confess,
Sooner in any Thing, than Dress;
A Science, which she little knows
Who only huddles on her Cloaths.

This Day, to please my Brother Con ,
She let me put your Present on;
And when she saw me very glad,
Cry'd out, She looks like one that's mad!
" Know, Girl, (says she) that Affectation
" Suits only those in higher Station;
" Who plead Prescription for their Rule,
" Whene'er they please to play the Fool:
" But that it best becomes us Cits,
" To dress like People in their Wits. "