The ermine robe, the ’broider’d chasuble.
’Tis habit makes the man, the wearer’s naught.
The fool, when he is naked, shows as sage
As the philosopher so furnished;
The lout’s bare hide’s no worser than the king’s,
And, when their pride is fondly touch’d, all men
Are brothers. Did not each Athenian wight
Beholding all his fellows in their guise
Most strange and horrible, yet deem himself
Perch’d high above the reach of wizardry,