Pierrot, no sentimental swain, Washes a pate down again With furtive flagons, white and red. Cassandre, to chasten his content, Greets with a tear of sentiment His nephew disinherited. That blackguard of a Harlequin Pirouettes, and plots to win His Columbine that flits and flies. Columbine dreams, and starts to find A sad heart sighing in the wind, And in her heart a voice that sighs. |