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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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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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Care-nothing sots, who've given The heart from hand, are we
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