Her, whom the Moorish nobles all
To heaven in their laudation raise,
Till the fine ladies of the land
Are left to languish in dispraise.
The mosque I visit every day,
And wait to see her come in sight;
I wait to see her, where the rout
And revel lengthen out the night.
However, cost me what it may,
I cannot meet the lovely dame.
Ah, now my eyes are veiled in tears,
Sure witness of my jealous flame.
And tell me, Tarfe, that my rage
Has cause enough, for since I've been
Granada's guest (and would to God
Granada I had never seen!)
My lord forsakes me every night,
Nor till the morning comes again;
He shuns as painful my caress,
My very presence brings him pain;
Little indeed he recks of me,
If only he may elsewhere reign.
For if we in the garden meet,
Or if we in the chamber be,
His actions his estrangement prove,
He has not even words for me.
And if I say to him, 'My life!'
He answers me, 'My dearest dear,'
Yet with a coldness that congeals
My very heart with sudden fear.
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