She museth upon "the Boom that waneth every day," and wondering what she shall "star" with next, breaketh forth into familiar strains:—
AIR—"What will you do, Love?"
What shall I do now? My song was going
Like a tide flowing, all Booms beyond;
What shall I do, though, when critics hide it,
And cads deride it who're now so fond?
"Ta-ra-ra" chiding, "Boom-de-ay" deriding!—
Nought is abiding—that's sadly true!
I'll pray for another Sensation Notion.