But the illusion is short and slight.

This world is very sordid--of shreds and patches, after all.

It is but a pretty masquerade, in which feminine vanity beats hard against strangely-clothed bosoms; and masculine conceit is shown in the work of the barber's curling-irons and the ship-carpenter's wooden swords and paper helmets.

The pride of these folk is not diminished because Hamlet's wig gets awry, or a Roman has trouble with his foolish garters.
Few men or women can resist mumming; they fancy themselves as somebody else, dead or living.

Yet these seem happy in this nonsense.