XLVII

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XLVII

But where Melpomene doth rave

With lengthened howl and accent loud,

And her bespangled robe doth wave

Before a cold indifferent crowd,

And where Thalia softly dreams

And heedless of approval seems,

Terpsichore alone among

Her sisterhood delights the young

(So ’twas with us in former years,

In your young days and also mine),

Never upon my heroine

The jealous dame her lorgnette veers,

The connoisseur his glances throws

From boxes or from stalls in rows.