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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455574" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Written for my Son ... at his First Putting on Breeches</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHAT is it our mamma's bewitches,<br> To plague us little boys with breeches ?<br> To tyrant Custom we must yield,<br> Whilst vanquish'd Reason flies the field.<br> Our legs must suffer by ligation,<br> To keep the blood from circulation ;<br> And then our feet, tho' young and tender,<br> We to the shoemaker's surrender ;<br> Who often makes our shoes so strait,<br> Our growing feet they cramp and fret ;<br> Whilst, with contrivance most profound,<br> Across our insteps we are bound ;<br> Which is the cause, I make no doubt,<br> Why thousands suffer in the gout.<br> Our wiser ancestors wore brogues,<br> Before the surgeons brib'd these rogues,<br> With narrow toes, and heels like pegs,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> To help to make us break our legs.<br> Then, ere we know to use our fists,<br> Our mothers closely bind our wrists ;<br>And never think our cloaths are neat,<br> Till they're so tight we cannot eat.<br> And, to increase our other pains,<br> The hatband helps to cramp our brains.<br> The cravat finishes the work,<br> Like bowstring sent from the Grand Turk.<br> Thus dress, that should prolong our date,<br> Is made to hasten on our fate.<br> Fair privilege of nobler natures,<br> To be more plagu'd than other creatures !<br> The wild inhabitants of air<br> Are cloath'd by heav'n with wondrous care :<br> Their beauteous, well-compacted feathers<br> Are coats of mail against all weathers ;<br> Enamell'd, to delight the eye ;<br> Gay as the bow that decks the sky.<br> The beasts are cloath'd with beauteous skins :<br> The fishes arm'd with scales and fins ;<br> Whose lustre lends the sailor light,<br> When all the stars are hid in night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> O were our dress contriv'd like these,<br> For use, for ornament, and ease !<br> Man only seems to sorrow born,<br> Naked, defenceless, and forlorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Yet we have Reason to supply<br> What nature did to man deny :<br> Weak Viceroy ! Who thy pow'r will own,<br> When Custom has usurp'd thy throne ?<br> In vain did I appeal to thee,<br> Ere I would wear his livery ;<br> Who, in defiance of thy rules,<br> Delights to make us act like fools.<br> O'er human race the tyrant reigns,<br> And binds them in eternal chains.<br> We yield to his despotic sway,<br> The only monarch all obey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mary+Barber">Mary Barber</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455574" data-title="Written for my Son ... at his First Putting on Breeches de Mary Barber" data-description="WHAT is it our mamma's bewitches,
 To plague us little boys with breeches ?
 To tyrant Custom we must yield,
 Whilst vanquish'd Reason flies the field.
 Our legs must suffer by ligation,
 To keep the blood from circulation ;
 And then our feet, th..."></div>
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