Years ago, I swear, we once met somewhere;
We danced—you take care to forget that ball—
And my arm embraced that wasp's whalebone waist,
So cruelly laced, so absurdly small!
But then I declare you had nut-brown hair,
The colour's still there just down at the roots;
You are "fancy free," full of girlish glee,
But you're forty-three I would bet my boots.
Your beauty is rare, but I am aware
That face you prepare, that vile waist you buy,