“Those arrows, her glances, were fired from the bow
of her brow,
the bow string drawn all the way back to her ear.
Have Love’s weapons of mass destruction been handed over
to her,
making her a goddess, so that Love might conquer
the world?”

“With those arrows, your glances, notched on the string
of the bow,
your brow, pierce me where it will hurt most;
With your braids, dark and curly, whip me,
as would be done by the god who is both
Love and Death;*
And, meanwhile, with your berry-lips,
passionate red, feed my delusions.
Do you, my delicate darling, see
what your well-rounded breasts have done to me?”

3.15

“Why is it that my sickness, this suffering of love
in separation,
keeps getting worse and worse?
Is not my mind, despite some attachment to the senses,
yet absorbed in religious meditation?
Yes, I meditate on
the pleasure of her touch, the sight of her tremulous eyes,
the fragrance of her lotus mouth, the nectarous flow
of her coy words,
and the mead from her berry-lips.”