The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom——is to die.

Parodied by T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land (1922): When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

And wring his bosom, is—to die.