Till, on some day when she has need of dress, And none at hand to serve her in distress, She takes th’ insulted robe, and turns about; Long-hidden beauties one by one peer out. “’Tis not so bad! see, Jenny—I declare, ’Tis pretty well, and then ’tis lasting wear; 70 And what is fashion?—if a woman’s wise, She will the substance, not the shadow, prize; ’Tis a choice silk; and, if I put it on, Off go these ugly trappings every one.” The dress is worn; a friendly smile is raised, But the good lady for her courage praised— Till wonder dies.—The dress is worn with pride, And not one trapping yet is cast aside. Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews; And on the seventh he worships Heav’n, and woos, 80 I leave thee, Barnaby; and if I see Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be. II. But how is this? I left a thriving man, Hight BARNABY, when he to trade began— Trade his delight and hope; and, if alive, Doubt I had none that Barnaby would thrive. Yet here I see him, sweeping as before The very dust from forth the very door. So would a miser! but, methinks, the shop Itself is meaner—has he made a stop? 90 I thought I should at least a burgess see, And lo! ’tis but an older Barnaby; With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare As coats of his once begging kindred were; Brush’d to the thread that is distinctly seen, And beggarly would be, but that ’tis clean. Why, how is this? Upon a closer view, The shop is narrow’d; it is cut in two. Is all that business from its station fled? Why, Barnaby! thy very shop is dead! 100 Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate— And what the fall from that predicted fate. * * * * *