Ideal of a lady
At the shady
Time of life;
You mustn't throw your soul away
On foolishness, like Pholoe--
Her days are folly-laden--
She's a maiden,
You're a wife.

Your daughter, with propriety,
May look for male society,
Do one thing and another
In which mother
Shouldn't mix;
But revels Bacchanalian
Are--or should be--quite alien
To you a married person,
Something worse'n
Forty-six!

Yes, Chloris, you cut up too much,
You love the dance and cup too much,
Your years are quickly flitting--
To your knitting,
Right about!
Forget the incidental things
That keep you from parental things--
The World, the Flesh, the Devil,
On the level,
Cut 'em out!