Chloris lay off the flapper stuff; 
What's fit for Pholoë, a fluff, 
Is not for Ibycus's wife-- 
A woman at your time of life!

Ignore, old dame, such pleasures as 
The shimmy and "the Bacchus Jazz"; 
Your presence with the maidens jars-- 
You are the cloud that dims the stars.

Your daughter Pholoë may stay 
Out nights on the Appian Way; 
her love for Nothus, as you know, 
Makes her as playful as a doe.

No jazz for you, no jars of wine, 
No rose that blooms incarnadine. 
For one thing only you are fit: 
Buy some Lucerian wool--and knit!