1. I please the fickle one, who rages in his wrath against me,
An idol of mine, yet he is of my own tribe.

2. Reproach me about the line of his cheek—
Leave me be!—and that line's dot.

3. If I had a heart that would obey me,
I would cut from it the ties that bind.

4. But my heart is between a bow and an archer
who has hung it up as a target amid his playgrounds and arrows.

5. O my hope! And life is fleeting,
while age has stripped the keen-edged sword.

6. Not everything that passes returns,
nor does everyone who judges recover.

7. So greet the morn with darkness and night has departed—
the red ground has turned white.

8. Though allies quarrel loudly,
like the croaking clamor of ducks.

9. The blond one laid them low, so they turned
voiceless when the din had passed.

10. Who will lend me his cloak to wrap them in?
It flutters loosely in the April wind.

11. The coquettish guide flirts and gambols,
swaying like the pliant branch.

12. Often a thornbush scratches me whom
neither my grasp nor reach can master.

13. Still I peel its thorns with my hand
while the thorns bloody my palm.

14. On a night of prolonged drinking, when
supper had slipped through our fingers,

15. and the sides of a starry night
had breathed out their black squadrons,

16. the scent of perfume was diffused
from a curling lock and balsam comb.

17. Had I spent my days giving you broth,
I would not have given what you give.