The Golden Treasury | ||
96
CXXI
[THE POETRY OF DRESS]
3
My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.
Anon.
The Golden Treasury | ||