Wouldst thou not think, O my Heart, and find out and tell me some remedy to cure me of this incurable disease?

Bless thee, my Heart! Thou art a fool to grieve at his absence when he hath no love for thee.

What availeth our sitting here and pining away for thinking of him, O my Heart? He that caused us this grief remembereth us not.

If thou go to him, my Heart, take these eyes also along with thee! For they devour me in their longing to look on him.

Though he spurneth us in spite of our cleaving unto him, can we give him up as an enemy, my Heart?

When thou lookest on the beloved who is clever in the art of conciliating, my Heart, thou wouldst not even take huff but wouldst rush to his embrace, forgetting all: I fear that now too thy anger is only feigned.

O my Heart! Either give up love or give up bashfulness: for, I am unable to support both of them at the same time.

Thou sighest that he would not return for pity sake, and wouldst go to seek him though he separated deliberately from thee: verily, thou art a simpleton, my Heart!

Whom dost thou seek to join, O my Heart, when thou knowest that the beloved is seated within thy own self?

If we entertain any longer within our hearts the beloved that hath abandoned us, we shall only waste ourselves away yet further.