Through tattered cloth small vices do disappear.

Robes and fur'd gowns join them.

"You choose a particularly bold cravat in a venomous magenta, embroidered in citrine and sulphur, and drape it over his shoulder. Your friend claps his hands in delight and turns to you. 'I do so enjoy that you know my tastes so well,' he says. 'It is perfect. Just as your...' He turns back to the mirror, happily stroking his new cravat. Later, he presents you with a gift; a new handkerchief he picked out himself. Naturally, you accept the hideous thing with good grace."

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

-William Blake, "Auguries of Innocence"

One makes do with what one is given. Silk in any shape or size still sells as cheap.

Shrewdly,
Pragmatically,

and remaining Yours Always,

 
La Cravate.