Without thee what are song and dance to me?
The castagnettes I throw down wearily.
My heart and thoughts are ever filled with thee,
So rhymes and verses leave me, one by one.
How can one bandage serve for gashes twain?
How on two masters wait a single swain?
Would not one gardener tend two groves in vain?
For he must graft the saplings one by one.
Well said our fathers, speaking of such woes,
“I made a garden, others plucked the rose.