Alas! if I think of her my throat is parched, my head is drooped, my breasts grow hard and make me ill at case, I tremble and I weep the while I walk.
If I see her my heart stops, my hands shake, my feet grow cold and fire mounts in my checks, while my temples pulse sadly on and on.
If I touch her I grow mad, my arms stiffen and my knees grow weak. I fall before her and curl up like a woman wont to die.
I am hurt by everything she says to me. Her love is like a torture, and the passers-by can hear my constant plaint. . . Alas! how can I call her Well-Beloved?