  When I pass by below your window, singing, Never by any chance I think of you; And jealousy your hard heart may be wringing— I go that way because I’ve work to do. And if you think, beneath the gay voice throbbing, You hear the sound of one in sorrow sobbing— I sing thus since my mood is thus. Believe me, Madame, no hopeless love of you shall grieve me. If they have said that I look pale and worn, Time is at fault, not any woman’s scorn. What’s that to you? Am I a love of yours? But if I see you smiling at Gigi that sweet way, Then I go to the galleys and you to churchyard clay. |
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