A Letter Written for my Daughter to a Lady, Who Had Presented Her With a Cap.
Your late kind Gift let me restore;
For I must never wear it more.
My Mother cries, 'What’s here to do?
‘A Crimson Velvet Cap for you!
’If to these Heights so soon you climb,
‘You’ll wear a Coachman’s Cap in time:
‘Perhaps on Palfry pace along,
’With ruffled Shirt, and Tete—Moutton;
‘Banish the Woman from your Face,
’And let the Rake supply the Place;
‘Delighted see the People stare,
’And ask each other what you are?
If she goes on to this dull Tune,
Poor I must be a Quaker soon.
She’ll scarcely let me wear a Knot;
But keeps me like a Hottentot;
Says, Dressing plain, at small Expence,
Shews better Taste, and better Sense.
I’d take her Judgment, I confess,
Sooner in any Thing, than Dress;
A Science, which she little knows,
Who only huddles on her Cloaths.
This Day, to please my Brother Con.
She let me put your Present on;
And when she saw me very glad,
Cry’d out, She looks like one that’s mad!
‘Know, Girl, (says she) that Affectation
‘Suits only those in higher Station;
’Who plead Prescription for their Rule,
‘Whene’er they please to play the Fool:
‘But that it best becomes us Cits,
’To dress like People in their Wits.’
