Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said-
And your tone was earnest, very-
You would never deck your head
With this vernal millinery.

Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;
Oh, that I should live to know it!
You that are my nearly-bride;
I that am your nearly-poet!

For I saw the awful lid
You had on at 10 this morning;
Myrt, it was a merrywid,
Spite of my decisive warning.

Still, I can forgive you that;
Though the thing look ne'er so silly;
I will overlook the hat
If you promise this, Myrtillie:

Wear your lacebelows and fluffs;
Wear the awfullest creations-
But-omit the stylish puffs
And the vogueish transformations.

Myrt, if you inflate your hair
I shall-well-excoriate you,
And, I positively swear,
Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you.