1. He who kohl'd the black eyelid with languor,
And rouged the red cheek with shyness,

2. He who plucked those tender blossoms,
And waged war with the sword of glance,

3. As if a pen its writer courses,
Sketching a subtle "L" on ruby with gold;

4. O you who blame me, excuse my love for him,
No blame lies on the impassioned lover;

5. Blessed by God - how beautiful you seem to me!
Sublime the Maker of this cheerful sight,

6. When the garden of his cheek appears,
Its blossoms make all else superfluous;

7. With those two gardens that I dyed with my blood,
And you shone crimson from the blood of passion;

8. Do not slay the love-struck with disdain, O my hope!
Have mercy on a loving heart enslaved by desire for you!