But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muça, and care not for his token.
My earrings! my earrings! O luckless, luckless well,
For what to say to Muça, alas! I can not tell.
"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believe—
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve;
That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His earrings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well."