Lolotte, who attires my hair, Lost her lover. Lolotte weeps; Trails her hand before her eyes; Hangs her head and mopes and sighs, Mutters of the pangs of hell. Fills the circumambient air With her plaints and her despair. Looks at me: "May you never know, Mam'selle, Love's harsh cruelty." Love's dart lurks in my heart too, – None may know the smart Throbbing underneath my smile. Burning, pricking all the while That I dance and sing and spar, Juggling words and making quips To hide the trembling of my lips. I must laugh What time I moan to moon and star To help me stand the gaff. What a silly thing is pride! Lolotte bares her heart. Heedless that each runner reads All her thoughts and all her needs. What I hide with my soul's life Lolotte tells with tear and cry. Blurs her pain with sob and sigh Happy Lolotte, she! I must jest while sorrow's knife Stabs in ecstasy. "If I live, I shall outlive." Meanwhile I am barred From expression of my pain. Let my heart be torn in twain, Only I may know the truth. Happy Lolotte, blessed she Who may tell her agony! On me a seal is set. Love is lost, and – bitter ruth – Pride is with me yet!