When we have shuffled off this flounced coil,—
Must we then pause? Where’s the respect
That makes the petticoats for so long rife?
For who would bear the great constraint of gowns,
The dresses long, the small feet hid thereby,
The pangs of tight-laced stays, the waist’s display,
The dirtiness of stockings, and the turns
The patient follower of fashion takes,
When she herself might her own comfort make
With pairs of trousers? Who would flounces wear