My dear, dear Isabel, I wish you well,
But into a dang'rous trap you fell!
What choice in husbands you have made,
But you were played! Then prayed, and stayed.
My dear, I pity your misfortune, really,
But I think a divorce would be, ideally,
How you'd deal with such a grave mistake,
With all your heart and purse at stake.
But, Author James, king of discretion,
Made you a martyr for convention.
To two proposals you said "no, sir"
But with Osmond you felt closer,
And said (alas, miss) "yes, sir!"
But found he's love's transgressor.
"No" to Goodwood, American beau,
And Again, Warburton: said "no."
Two young men who off'red rings,
Without grabbing at purse strings.
Madame Merle who played the devil
And deceived you head, so level.
And for her Pansy, bastard daughter,
She gave you up for spirit slaughter.
And your independence you gave up
For a man's affection purely made-up,
How took advantage of senses-better
To strap you, Isabel, with fetters.
Corruption is the price of money,
That vile gild is bitter honey,
Which Ralph gave to spirits-lift
But 'twas a burdening gift.
Or perhaps it is the Eur'pean air
Which rusted your innocence, so fair.