Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, September 10, 1892

Dear Lyre, your duty now you know! If one would sing with grace and glow Songs of Society, One must not dream of fire, or length, Or vivid touch, or virile strength, Or great variety.

Among the Muses of Mayfair A Bacchanal with unbound hair, And loosened girdle, Would be as purely out of place As Atalanta in a race O'er hedge or hurdle:

Our Muse, dear Lyra, must be trim, Must not indulge in vagrant whim, Of voice or vesture. Boudoir decorum will allow No gleaming eye, no glowing brow, No ardent gesture.

Society, which is our theme, Is like a well-conducted stream Which calmly ripples. We sing the World where no one feels Too pungently, or hates, or steals, Or loves, or tipples.

And should you hint that down below The subtle siren all men know Is hiding her face, Our answer is: "That may be true, But boudoir bards have nought to do Save with the surface."

And therefore, though Society feel The Proletariat's heavy heel Its kibe approaching, Some luxuries yet are left to sing, The Opera-Box, the Row, the Ring, And Golf, and Coaching.

Not e'en the Socialistic scare The dandyish and the debonair Has quite demolished; Whilst Privilege hath still a purse, There's yet a chance for flowing verse, And periods polished.

If IBSEN, BELLAMY, and GEORGE, Raise not the boudoir critic's gorge Beyond all bearing, Light lyrics may she not endure, On social ills above her cure, Below her caring?

Muse, with Society we may toy Without impassioned grief or joy, Or boisterous merriment; May sing of Sorrow with a smile; At least, it may be worth our while To try the experiment.