Be’t joy or grief for which men meet.5
They fancy they can read my heart;
Grief’s secrets I to none impart.
My throes and moans form but one chain,
Men’s eyes and ears catch not their train.
Though soul and body be as one,
Sight of his soul hath no man won.
A flame’s the flute’s wail; not a breath,
That flame who feels not, doom him death.
The flame of love, ’tis, prompts the flute,