Classic Poem

Thy Torn Cloaths, as Torn Ensigns in the War,
Proofs of your Virtue, not Dishonour, are;
Which like them, only manifest and show,
There still has been old tugging too, for you;
Yet, by thy Ragged Coat it does appear,
As by the Colt's, you ne'r bestridden were;
Since Phillis 's Fine Coat, as Filly's too,
Does, that She's kept for Riding, likewise show;
Then for my Credit, yours too will it be,
That you (Fine Dear!) are kept thus Ill by me;
For if True Beauty more is seen, as less
It, for its Charms, is owing to its Dress;
And the Fine Shape's, as the Fine Face's Proof,
Is more, as less Art's us'd to set it off;
Then me, (pray) for your Ill Dress, do not blame,
Which is more for your Honour, than your Shame,
The Honour of your Beauty, and your Fame;
In Rags I keep thee for thy Credit so,
For thy Sake, and my Satisfaction too,
My Love, thy Beauty, but the more to show;
Since, shou'd I keep thee Finer, I shou'd be,
But more in Pain, and Fear of losing thee;
Thus I (my Dear!) now keep thee but thus Ill,
Out of more Kindness, but to keep thee still;
And keep thee worse, the better but to prove,
The Pow'r of thy true Beauty, my true Love;
Since, but as Beauty less to Dressing ows,
Or Art, its Excellency much more it shows;
The Fine, by Nature, are lik'd more, as less
Their Finery seems owing to their Dress;
Then, but because your Honour's, Beauty's Fame,
I'll keep from Censure of the World, or Shame,
I keep you, but more barely, poorly so,
Out of more Love, and Honour still for you;
Since Women's Honour suffers much more, by
Their Dress's, than their Features Finery;
For a Fine Woman's Pride, her Shame we call,
Who, the more set out, seems more set to Sale.