A burning fire consumes my aching breast;
I am undone! Alas! O cruel fate!
She lets her tresses flow in all the breeze,
Exhaling sweet perfume. Thy brows are arched
In beauty's curve. Thy glance is like a ball
Shot from a Christian's gun, which hits the mark.
Thy cheek is lovely as the morning rose
Or bright carnation, and thy ruby blood
Gives it the shining brightness of the sun.
Thy teeth are ivory-white, and thy warm kiss