Thou art my Lord and not another: though many and various are the ways that men may speak.
This faith of Thee Thy slave ever cherishes in his heart, for in all ages Bhagats say Thy nature is to love.

In others I have found no profit; I gave up pride of race, renounced the honour of the world.
If Dharni lose or wins his life, it matters not: now in his heart he trusts with thought and word and deed.

Will you hear Muset's " Muse " ? 'Twas the morning of a fête in May in a green and flowering orchard at the break of day when every bird sings with great joy, and I went to make a garland in the greenwood. I made it fair and quaint and neat and full of flowers. A lady, charming and most fair, a comely maid, a " laughing mouth," called to me: " Come hither, play your viol ... your " Muse" singing so prettily. "

The Lord is found in love alone.
Not in knowledge, nor meditation: not in deed, nor caste, nor ordinance.
He is not in Mahabharat nor Ramayana: nor Manu-Smriti nor Vedas.
Not in talking or in wrangles; nor in the differences of faiths.
Not in temples nor in worship: nor in the sound of temple bells.
O Hari Chand, the Lord is swinging bound by the bond of love alone.

" When I see the new flowers spring up in the meadow, when I hear the little stream murmur in the pebbles, then I am held by a new love from which I shall never recover; if this sickness is not healed, well I know that I shall die.
" I am a dark and lovely and young maid, my cheek is vermilion, my eyes grey, my mouth beautiful. My little breast so pricks me that I cannot bear it: 'tis reason I meddle with the sweet pain of love.

If kindness and goodness dwell within the heart, then the lips speak ambrosial words.
You may know those to be highest, whose looks are lowly,

All else is but plastering with water: the one essence of all is charity.
They who knew the reverence due to another soul, they alone crossed to safety.

Shall I sing to you a song of pleasant love? No churl made it, but a knight under the shadow of an olive-tree in his lady's arms.
Her shift was of linen, her cloak of white ermine, and her bodice of silk; her stockings were of new-mown hay, her shoes of neatly fitting flowers of May.
Her girdle was of leaves which grow green when the year changes, and the clasp was of gold. The purse was of love and the pendants were flowers, given by love.

Fair Yolande sat in her bower and sewed a robe of samite which she meant to send her lover. Sighing, she sang this song: " God! how sweet is the name of love; never did I think to feel its pain.
" Fair, sweet lover, now will I send you a gown out of my very great love. I pray you, for God's sake, pity me. " She could not rest, but flung herself down. God! how sweet is the name of love; never did I think to feel its pain.

To Thee for refuge am I come, O Rama.
When from a Sadhu's lips I heard it, that Thy name is the cleansing of sinners.
Learning this I cried aloud — for evil lust has sore oppressed me.
All desires have left me helpless — says Thy slave Maluk.

Ten thousand tomes with pendant discs of jade,
Bowls of old Shang with bronze of Chow displayed,
And suddenly the small
Tinkle of girdle gems floats through the hall,
As though the wind custodian sings —
" I guard the fragrance of a thousand springs.
Draw near! draw near!
Ten thousand yesterdays are gathered here. "

She went on the wrong way; she has come back again; afar off she stands, her head bowed down with shame and fear; she does not step forward, she cannot raise her eyes — go near, take her hand, call her and bring her.
To-day turn not your face away in silent reproach; to-day let eyes and words be filled with the nectar of love. What good will come from pouring scorn on the past? Think of her dark future, take her by the hand and bring her.