DEAR gown, that he has known me in— And still perhaps his eyes would trace— You're blameless, though I could not win His love—yours was a faultless grace! For so much folly to confess I chose you wistfully, with care, Because I think much comeliness Accrues from comely clothes we wear. I'll warrant you became me well— At once we seemed so long allied, And by the way your rich folds fell, To do me honour seemed your pride. I wonder you should still seem new, For though indeed if they be told, The times I wore you were but few, My heart in the same while grew old; And as clothes' fashions so soon change, And not the comeliest long remain, Next year you'd be considered strange— But you shall not be worn again. You never shall provoke the scoff Of fools at antiquated worth; Nor, now that I have left you off, Be cast to beggars of mean birth. But in the chest where you must lie Myself I'll lay you, like a friend; For with you, too, must be put by Those dreams that had so soon an end! |