Wine’s ferment, love; its tongue not mute.10
The absent lover’s flute’s no toy;
Its trills proclaim his grief, his joy.
Or bane, or cure, the flute is still;
Content, complaining, as you will.
It tells its tale of burning grief;
Recounts how love is mad, in brief.
The lover lover’s pangs best knows;
As ear receives tongue’s plaint of woes.
Through grief, his day is but a dawn;