She rails in holy horror, with a Puritanic rage,
That beauty's form is shocking,
In semi-raiment mocking,
Her own upholstered scragginess in picture or on stage.
Her loathing is the ballet;
For lo! from court and alley,
The thousand Cinderellas are fairy clad and bright,
A direr deed of sinning—
By dint of beauty winning
Their bread, than by the needle, in the murky candlelight,