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.