Your roguish eyes have robbed me,
Of all my dreams bereft me,
Dreams that are fair, yet fleeting.
Fled are my truant fancies,
Regrets I do not cherish,
For now life's rosy morn is breaking,
Now golden love is waking.
Now that I've told my story,
Pray tell me yours, too;
Tell me frankly, who are you?
Say, will you tell?

MIMI. (_after some hesitation_)
They call me Mimi
But my name is Lucia;
My story is a short one--
Fine satin stuffs or silk
I deftly embroider;
I am content and happy;
The rose and lily I make for pastime.
These flowers give me pleasure
As in magical accents
They speak to me of love,
Of beauteous springtime.
Of fancies and of visions bright they tell me,
Such as poets, and only poets, know.
Do you hear me?

RUD. Yes!