So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired
In secret, and all eyes evaded,
Till you can boast yourself attired
Unwatched, uncounselled and unaided?
Perfect in button, tape and hook,
You’ve learned the knack, you come to tell us,
And while you turn that we may look
I own I am a little jealous
That she has taught you with success
How to assume your frock and shed it,
That you have learnt the art to dress
And Abigail’s is all the credit.
Yet my devotion has its will,
Nor can I lightly yield to Nurse all
The praise, for I have prompted still
A spiritual dress rehearsal;
On your soft hair a helmet placed,
Fastened your breastplate like a bib on,
And tied the Truth about your waist
Where she is proud to tie your ribbon.
Each has her task, decorous, sweet,
Fair, to surpass your friends, she made you,
While for your hidden foes’ defeat
I in your Pauline arms arrayed you.
For, though you tire of sash and gown
And fold them up for good, there’s no day
When these, that I have made your own,
Shall be a burden or démodés.
Yet, though the clasps endure, I know
I’ll wish our handiwork were neater
When at celestial gates you show
The well-worn harness to St. Peter.