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 MORNING TOILET.

'Tis sure eleven by the sun,

And now, her morning toilet done,

Perfumed and powdered fair,

My Madame Dives, smooth and bland—

The richest lady in the land—

Reclines upon her chair.

Languidly hangs her idle wrist

In those great beads of amethyst;

Steadily her head

Turns its two eyes, as if to say,

Well, well, and here's another day

To fatten and be fed.

Honeycomb, cream and dainty fruit

Have plumped her cheek, and silked her throat

And ringleted that wig.

And only princes' minions know

Where blooms like these are made to blow—

A thousand crowns a sprig.

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