The oil of my nights, and light of my days,
Wholly have I spent to your single homage on old leaves;
But my tribute goes not past my chest, like obscure schemes of thieves –
As I give my lamp’s oil, and hide under cool shades, to do your praise.
Women, left to themselves, by themselves constitute a religion,
Love is the doctrine, and men are the worshippers devout.
And so have I held you (the gods forgive this lout)
To whom I do the profession of my faith, as my love guides me on.
But how now that my deity requites her votary’s worship,
And speak in a flood of tears of an heavenly love,
And swear of all mortals in the rungs of her love I stand above –
So that she makes my doubtful fears grow in tide by each drop she does weep!
For, Shindara, I reason upon your love’s awkward odds,
And grow wary a trap’s spread before me by the jealous gods!