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 ;
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.