And weep when Medea entrances my soul—
Star of the evening, beautiful star.
I love thee in Norma and fair Marguerite,
And Lohengrin even thy tones can make sweet:
But I sigh that no journal will pay me to write
At the rate of thy two hundred guineas per night—
Star of the evening, beautiful star.
Funny Folks.
Beautiful Pit, behind the stalls,