Classic Poem

Never more will you say to your poor silly dolt
Of a husband—before to your lover you bolt—
‘The Emperor bade me this morning to go
To Circeii or Alba—That trick's useless now.
Under Nerva you might a Penelope be,
If from your old itch you could only get free.
But how will you manage? Suppose you pretend
You are going to see a poor sick lady-friend—
Your husband will trot at your heels all the way
And insist on your people a visit to pay.
Other wantons perhaps to cool their inner fire
Might say that a spitz-bath is what they require:
But to tell the plain truth is much better by far,
And to cry—‘There's my lover. I'm off. Tra-la-la’.