An Ultimatum To Myrtilla

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.