This is a fan for my mother No other. Shall I then descant on its use In manner diffuse. Maunder of passion and sighs And the light of your luminous eyes I am a novice these jobs on They are the stroke of A Dobson. No 'tis a chaperone's fan Dreaded by Man— Signalling over the room The signal of doom— When the hours of the night have grown small At the end of a ball And Trixie the wilful demurs At the hookum for carriage and furs— Wherefore your offspring would urge Use it dear mum for a scourge.
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