Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast,
Still to read more

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast,
Still to be powder'd, all perfum'd.
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

He that is proud of the rustling of his silks, like a madman,
laughs at the ratling of his read more

He that is proud of the rustling of his silks, like a madman,
laughs at the ratling of his fetters. For indeed, Clothes ought
to be our remembrancers of our lost innocency.

(Cloten:) Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?
(Guiderius:) No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
read more

(Cloten:) Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?
(Guiderius:) No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
Who is thy grandfather. He made those clothes,
Which, as it seems, make thee.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy,
For read more

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy,
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; read more

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes.
Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence.

To a woman, the consciousness of being will dressed gives a sense
of tranquility which religion fails to bestow.

To a woman, the consciousness of being will dressed gives a sense
of tranquility which religion fails to bestow.

Not caring, so that sumpter-horse, the back
Be hung with gaudy trappings, in what course
Yea, rags read more

Not caring, so that sumpter-horse, the back
Be hung with gaudy trappings, in what course
Yea, rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul.

See where she comes, apparelled like the spring,
Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king
Of read more

See where she comes, apparelled like the spring,
Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king
Of every virtue gives renown to men!

John Lee is dead, that good old man,--
We ne'er shall see him more:
He used to read more

John Lee is dead, that good old man,--
We ne'er shall see him more:
He used to wear an old drab coat
All buttoned down before.