The pants! perchance the boots! Ay, there's the rub.
For in those pants and boots what jeers may come,
When we have shuffled off these untold skirts
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a custom,
For who could bear the scoffs and jeers of boys—
The old maid's scandal—the young man's laughter—
The sidelong leers, and derision's mock,
The insolent press, and all the spurns
We Bloomers of these boobies take!