Page:Monk and the miller's wife (1).pdf/19

[19] They'll be to admiration driven, To ſee ſuch gyzards come to heaven. The Prince who came our ſouls to ſave, The like on earth did never crave: His coat without ſeam woven throughout, There was no ribband it about. Had it been as at this time decor'd, The ſoldiers would have ſoughten for'd. But ſome men they may ſay to me, Why ſhould we not go perfectly, And use our cloaths into the fashion, The which is us'd into this nation? Men's perfect cloaths I'll not despise, But hate their ſuperfluous guise : That men do wear their cloaths above, Such vanitie I do not love: Our fathers' cloaths were full as warm, And did their purses far less harm, When nothing in their time was worn, But ſuch as off the ſheep were ſhorn. Of old, it monstrous was by nature, The which was known by their ſtature; But now there's many in this part, Have made themſelves monsters by art: Men's cloaths are now ſo variable, Do prove their ways to be unstable Of no cloathing they are content, Except the ſhape that's nice invent: Our artificers every year They have a new fashion to lear; But could they change men's persons too, They would get twice as much to do. It is but poor men's fantasie, And craftsmen's curioſity, That doth uphold their cloaths ſo vain, The one for pride, the other for gain;