My dress is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To go—to buy,
To buy! perchance too much; aye, there’s the rub;
For in that Sale of Sales, what dreams may come,
When I have shuffled off this wretched robe
Must give me pause: Still there’s the ancient dress
That marks gentility in well-worn silk,—
Yet who would bear the flaunts and scorns of Kate,
The Mantua Maker’s grief, Pall Mall’s contumely,
The pangs of last year’s shade, the Christmas bills.