She counts—­for she is passing fair. 
  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. 
  And all the while I strive to make
    His soul reveal a traitorous thought,
  He turns his back on me, as if
    To him my trembling fear was naught. 
  And when about his neck I cling,
    He drops his eyes and bows his face,
  As if, from thought of other arms
    He longed to slip from my embrace. 
  His bosom heaves with discontent,
    Deep as from hell the sigh is wrenched;
  My heart with dark suspicion beats,
    And all my happiness is quenched. 
  And if I ask of him the cause,
    He says the cause in me is found;
  That I am vain, the rover I,
    And to another’s bosom bound. 
  As if, since I have known his love,
    I at the window show my face,
  Or take another’s hand in mine,
    Or seek the bull-ring, joust, or race;
  Or if my footsteps have been found
    To wander a suspected place,
  The prophet’s curse upon me fall,
    Unless to keep the nuptial pact
  And serve the pleasure of my lord. 
    I kept the Koran’s law exact! 
  But wherefore should I waste the time
    These tedious questions to recall? 
  Thou knowest the chase on which he hies,
    And yet in silence hidest all. 
  Nay, swear not—­I will naught believe;
    Thine oaths are but a fowler’s net,
  And woe betide the dame who falls
    Into the snare that thou hast set. 
  For men are traitors one and all;
    And all their promises betray;
  Like letters on the water writ,
    They vanish, when love’s fires decay. 
  For to fulfil thy promise fair,
    What hours thou hast the whole day long,
  What chances on the open road,
    Or in the house when bolts are strong. 
  O God! but what a thought is this?