Pierrot, no sentimental swain,
Washes a paté down again
With furtive flagons, white and red.
Cassandre, with demure 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.