Mimi's so sickly, so ailing,
Every day she grows weaker,
The poor girl, as I think, is dying.
MAR. (fearing MIMI may overhear them, tries to keep RUDOLPH further off) Oh! Rudolph!
MIMI. What's he saying?
RUD. By fierce, incessant coughing
Her fragile frame is shaken,
While in her cheeks so pallid
The fires of fever waken.
MAR. (agitated, perceiving that Mimi is listening) Softly!
MIMI. (weeping) Woe is me! I'm dying!
RUD. And my room's but a squalid hovel,
No fire there burneth,
Only the cruel night wind
Waileth, waileth there ever.
Yet she's merry and smiling,
While, remorseful, despairing,
I feel that 'tis I that am guilty.
MAR. (eager to draw RUDOLPH aside) List but a moment!
MIMI. (disconsolately) Ah! I'm dying!
RUD. Mimi's a hot-house flower!