Your mother, turning to me suddenly,
Caught the broad sunset on her triple chin
And nigh her ample and too friendly grin,
Where cheek joins neck in blown obesity,
A faint red whisker was confessed to me.
Suzanne! if you should feel a beard begin
Be resolute and to the hilts thrust in
These silvern tweezers that I send to thee ...

And if nor strength nor sleight of art avail,
Oh, still be resolute, Suzanne, and play
The nobler part; a dagger here I lay
Beside the tweezers, Sue ... My Thirtieth's tale
Deals with a Wart that naught could charm away;
A tale so sad, so sad! Ah, Welladay!