No blame in them will I e’er espy: ✿ No! nor aught of solace sans them descry:
Your love hath shot me with pine, and I ✿ Bear in heart a flame that shall never die,
But fire my liver with fiery ray.
All folk my sickness for marvel score ✿ That in darkest night I wake evermore
What ails them to torture this heart forlore ✿ And deem right for loving my blood t’ outpour:
And yet—how justly unjust are they!
Would I wot who ’twas could obtain of you ✿ To wrong a youth who’s so fain of you:
By my life and by Him who made men of you ✿ And the spy tell aught I complain of you
He lies, by Allah, in foulest way!
May the Lord my sickness never dispel, ✿ Nor ever my heart of its pains be well,