Yesterday as I walked past Winchester Cathedral I saw people dressed to the nines for a wedding. They, particularly the woman, looked awful, uncomfortable, conspicuous, and doleful. Robert Herrick (1591-1674) bemoans a person being “too precise in every part” and prefers a “sweet disorder in the dress.” I entirely agree, perhaps because I am myself prone to disorder in the dress. We may assume the object of this sonnet to be a woman (and there is mention of a petticoat), but no gender is mentioned.

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness:

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction:

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher:

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribbands to flow confusedly:

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat:

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me than when art

Is too precise in every part.