Ah! inquire not into the wretched. Khacan's fate:
Thy waving locks have deprived him of reason;
But how many thousand lovers, before him,
Have fallen victims to the magic of thy beauty.
III.
My soul, captivated by thy charms,
Wastes itself away in chains, and bends beneath
The weight of oppression. Thou hast said
"Love will bring thee to the tomb--arise,
And leave his dominions" But, alas!
I wish to expire at thy feet, rather than to abandon
Altogether my hopes of possessing thee.
I swear, by the two bows that send forth
Irresistible arrows from thine eyes,
That my days have lost their lustre:
They are dark as the jet of thy waving ringlets;
And the sweetness of thy lips far exceeds,
In the opinion of Khacan, all that
The richest sugar-cane has ever yielded.
IV.
The humid clouds of spring float over the enamelled meads,
And, like my eyes, dissolve in tears.
My fancy seeks thee in all places; and the beauties
Of Nature retrace, at every moment,
Thy enchanting image. But thou, O cruel fair one!
Thou endeavourest to efface from thy memory
The recollection of my ardent love--my tender constancy.
Thy charms eclipse the growing tulip--
Thy graceful stature puts to shame the lofty cyprus.
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