| My face in her way I laid, Who passage thereby made not |
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| What kindness 'twas that, all at once, The droppings of thy quill |
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| When the light of the sun of wine The East of the bowl forth cometh |
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| Of her ebon tress such reason Have I to complain that ask not |
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| In the heart's fire my breast for love Of yonder fair consumeth |
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| This my love for thee no whim is, That, from mem'ry flown, shall go |
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| Good news, o my heart, for once more The zephyr of Spring hath returned! |
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| Care-nothing sots, who've given The heart from hand, are we |
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| Lord of the world-all, Help of Religion, accomplished King |
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| Tell me, o soul, who bade thee Thus of our case ask not |
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