1. I turn my listless eyes, complaining of the wiles of their mistress,
Who killed and revived the slain with tongues of magic that turn sorrows to joys.

2. With glances they converse with the love-sick and turn illness to health in hearts,
I loved you, O mole-bearer, and love is a state, that when it befalls a man, he knows not its nature,

3. Yet you are the life of my heart, though oft it betray you, coming to you filled with passion sincere.
Your coyness hurts it not, nor does your disdain cease to dress its wounds.

4. Between passion and disdain my heart is poised, like your mole between sword and fire wavering,
And between attainment and despair my patience halts, like your waist ‘twixt breast and flank fainting.

5. My people expose me, saying I have gone astray. I disown my madness, if mad I be.
They would give medicine to my love-sick heart to still it, but who can procure me a remedy so precious?

6. Love is only rapture and then misery, as the sot suffered with wine when sober.