1. Is there a tyrannical unifier who found no consolation in union?
Or a supporter of my eyelids against wakefulness?

2. He of happy condition does not fold his cloaks.
The hand of passion folds them, and the hand of sickness.

3. In his body is a gentleness with which a ruggedness melts away.
If a passion stirs him, it stirs the grief of my body.

4. Your name is divided in a way you wanted,
The "sad" is your eye, and the rest is on my liver.