My thorax, cinched by wicked corset, heaves;
Immobilized—alas!—by whalebone sides.
Poor arms ensconced in pufferfish-like sleeves
Weep o’er these fads that everyone abides.
Like suffocating serpents of the wrists
These gloves, festooned with ruffled lace upon them;
Yet worse? These gilded brooches, fat as fists,
Beseeming—but beware to those who don them!
Shackled in jewels and gold embroidery,
‘Tis nigh impossible to freely romp.
O, would that I were clad as peasantry,
For comfort outlasts frippery and pomp.
To be or not to be a girdled rose?
Nay—merrier I’d be in peasant’s clothes.