To brush and sweep the mud,—a weary wife,—
But that the dread of some one’s sneering breath,—
That unforgiven sarcasm from whose spurn
The maiden e’er recoils,—puzzles the will;
And makes us rather wear the dress we have
Than change for others that we know not of?
Thus custom does make cowards of us all;
And thus the very name of resolution
Is passed o’er by the frail cant of the law,
And novel dresses of great use and beauty