1. Arrows well-aimed for my shooting,
Or polished cups for my drinking,

2. All finding their mark, yet lacking zeal,
Alas my heart, what does my heart prepare?

3. Those eyes which failed me,
In longing for them, the herd’s weaklings,

4. Lady of the veil, in which she shelters
The rose of her cheek, a scorpion with a sting,

5. You have sweetened suffering for me, so it’s sweet
With fresh water from your sweet lips.