Philautia, a servant of folly,
Born under same roof as that same polly
Who made flowers in fountains after death
And crushed the dame who repeated his breath,
Now finds herself servant to many one
Who selfie themselves before anyone,
Who submit surgery as Nature’s lot,
And who love themselves by something their not.
Philautia has the whole of this down
By satisfying each makeup but clown,
But soon her travail will take on expense
When her masters payment do hit the fence
Exposes them disease that they will keep
By their nature that’s alone to run deep.