At the Hop by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

'Tis time to dress. Dost hear the music surging / Like sobbing waves that roll up from the sea? / Yes, yes, I hear -- I yield -- no need of urging; / I know your wishes, -- send Lisette to me.

I hate the ballroom; hate its gilded pleasure; / I hate the crowd within it, well you know; / But what of that? I am your lawful treasure -- / And when you would display me I must go.

You bought me with a mother's pain and trouble. / I've been a great expense to you alway. / And now, if you can sell me, and get double / The sum I cost -- why, what have I to say?

You've done your duty: kept me in the fashion, / And shown me off at every stylish place. / 'Twas not your fault I had a heart of passion; / 'Twas not your fault I ever _saw_ his face.

The dream was brief, and beautiful, and tender, / (O God! to live those golden hours once more. / The silver moonlight, and his dark eyes' splendour, / The sky above us, and the sea before.)

Come, come, Lisette, bring out those royal laces; / To-night must make the victory complete. / Among the crowd of masked and smiling faces, / I'll move with laughter, and with smiles most sweet.

Make me most fair! with youth and grace and beauty, / I needs must conquer bloated age and gold. / She shall not say I have not done my duty; / I'm ready now -- a daughter to be sold!