Since I die of love, ‘twere better Beauty stabbed and set me free.
For I have no love beside thee—I would have thee know it well.
Thou for whom e’en death I’d suffer, list to what I have to tell.
See thou thwart not thy Creator,—all the past do not dispel:
Anger not thy Sayat Nova, for when in thy snare he fell
He was all bereft of reason by thy whims’ and humours’ spell.