A WRY little poem about female vanity, from the rather unlikely pen of D H Lawrence.

INTIMATES

Don't you care for my love? she said bitterly.

I handed her the mirror, and said:

Please address these questions to the proper person!

Please make all requests to head-quarters!

In all matters of emotional importance

please approach the supreme authority direct! -

So I handed her the mirror.

And she would have broken it over my head,

but she caught sight of her own reflection

and that held her spellbound for two seconds

while I fled.