1 Why should our garments, made to hide
Our parents' shame, provoke our pride?
The art of dress did ne'er begin
Till Eve our mother learnt to sin.

2 When first she put the covering on,
Her robe of innocence was gone;
And yet her children vainly boast
In the sad marks of glory lost.

3 How proud we are! how fond to shew
Our clothes, and call them rich and new,
When the poor sheep and silkworms wore
That very clothing long before!

4 The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I:
Let me be dress'd fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.

5 Then will I set my heart to find
Inward adornings of the mind:
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.

6 No more shall worms with me compare,
This is the raiment angels wear:
The Son of God, when here below,
Put on this blest apparel too.

6 It never fades, it ne'er grows old,
Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould:
It takes no spot, but still refines;
The more `tis worn, the more it shines.

7 In this on earth would I appear,
Then go to heaven, and wear it there:
God will approve it in his sight;
'Tis his own work, and his delight.