An Ultimatum To Myrtilla

Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said-
  And your tone was earnest, very-
You would never deck your head
  With this vernal millinery.

Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;
  Oh, that I should live to know it!
You that are my nearly-bride;
  I that am your nearly-poet!

For I saw the awful lid
  You had on at 10 this morning;
Myrt, it was a merrywid,
  Spite of my decisive warning.

Still, I can forgive you that;
  Though the thing look ne'er so silly;
I will overlook the hat
  If you promise this, Myrtillie:

Wear your lacebelows and fluffs;
  Wear the awfullest creations-
But-omit the stylish puffs
  And the vogueish transformations.

Myrt, if you inflate your hair
I shall-well-excoriate you,
And, I positively swear,
Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you.