From a just medium in our clothing flow.” 
   “Proceed, good doctor; if so great my need,
What is thy fee?  Good doctor! pray proceed.” 
   “Large is my fee, fair lady, but I take
None till some progress in my cure I make: 
Thou hast disease, fair maiden; thou art vain;
Within that face sit insult and disdain;
Thou art enamour’d of thyself; my art
Can see the naughty malice of thy heart: 
With a strong pleasure would thy bosom move,
Were I to own thy power, and ask thy love;
And such thy beauty, damsel, that I might,
But for thy pride, feel danger in thy sight,
And lose my present peace in dreams of vain delight.” 
   “And can thy patients,” said the nymph “endure
Physic like this? and will it work a cure?”
   “Such is my hope, fair damsel; thou, I find,
Hast the true tokens of a noble mind;
But the world wins thee, Sybil, and thy joys
Are placed in trifles, fashions, follies, toys;
Thou hast sought pleasure in the world around,
That in thine own pure bosom should be found;
Did all that world admire thee, praise and love,
Could it the least of nature’s pains remove? 
Could it for errors, follies, sins atone,
Or give the comfort, thoughtful and alone? 
It has, believe me, maid, no power to charm
Thy soul from sorrow, or thy flesh from harm: 
Turn then, fair creature, from a world of sin,
And seek the jewel happiness within.” 
   “Speak’st thou at meeting?” said the nymph; “thy speech
Is that of mortal very prone to teach;
But wouldst thou, doctor, from the patient learn
Thine own disease?—­the cure is thy concern.” 
   “Yea, with good will.”—­“Then know ’tis thy complaint,
That, for a sinner, thou’rt too much a saint;
Hast too much show of the sedate and pure,
And without cause art formal and demure: 
This makes a man unsocial, unpolite;
Odious when wrong, and insolent if right. 
Thou mayst be good, but why should goodness be
Wrapt in a garb of such formality? 
Thy person well might please a damsel’s eye,
In decent habit with a scarlet dye;
But, jest apart—­what virtue canst thou trace
In that broad brim that hides thy sober face? 
Does that long-skirted drab, that over-nice
And formal clothing, prove a scorn of vice? 
Then for thine accent—­what in sound can be
So void of grace as dull monotony? 
Love has a thousand varied notes to move
The human heart:  —­thou mayest not speak of love
Till thou hast cast thy formal ways aside,
And those becoming youth and nature tried: 
Not till exterior freedom, spirit, ease,
Prove it thy study and delight to please;
Not till these follies meet thy just disdain,
While yet thy virtues and thy worth remain.” 
   “This is severe!—­Oh! maiden wilt not thou
Something for habits, manners, modes, allow?” —
   “Yes! but allowing much, I much require,
In my behalf, for manners, modes, attire!”