CHOU knowest her, the thing of laces, and silk, And ribbons, and gauzes, and crinoline, With her neck and shoulders as white as milk,

And her doll-like face and conscious mien.

A lay-figure fashioned to fit a dress, All stuffed within with straw and bran; Is that a woman to love, to caress? Is that a creature to charm a man?

Only listen! how charmingly she talks Of your dress and hers - of the Paris mode -

Of the coming ball - of the opera box -Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad.

Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well, And Fashion she worships with downcast eyes;

A marchande de modes is her oracle, And Paris her earthly paradise.

She's perfect to whirl with in a waltz;

And her shoulders show well on a soft divan, As she lounges at night and spreads her silks,

And plays with her bracelets and flirts her fan,-

With a little laugh at whatever you say,

And rounding her "No" with a look of surprise,

And lisping her "Yes" with an air distrait, And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes.

Her duty this Christian never omits!

She makes her calls, and she leaves her cards, And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits,

And slim attaches and six-foot Guards.

Her talk is of people who're nasty or nice, And she likes little bon-bon compliments;

While she seasons their sweetness by way of spice, By some witless scandal she often invents.

Is this the thing for a mother or wife?

Could love ever grow on such barren rocks? Is this the companion to take for a wife?

One might as well marry a musical box.

You exhaust in a day her full extent;

'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always; You must wind her up with a compliment,

To be bored with the only airs she plays.