Ninon De Lenclos, On Her Last Birthday

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So let me have the rouge again,
 And comb my hair the curly way.
The poor young men, the dear young men
 They'll all be here by noon today.

And I shall wear the blue, I think-
 They beg to touch its rippled lace;
Or do they love me best in pink,
 So sweetly flattering the face?

And are you sure my eyes are bright,
 And is it true my cheek is clear?
Young what's-his-name stayed half the night;
 He vows to cut his throat, poor dear!

So bring my scarlet slippers, then,
 And fetch the powder-puff to me.
The dear young men, the poor young men-
 They think I'm only seventy!

© Dorothy Parker