NOTE: 39

I planted a melon-patch Up on yonder slope. May God not preserve This [ill-fated] year of years! Not a single sweet-melon grew To send to [my] beloved. Come, [my] love, come, do not remain aggrieved, The affairs of this mortal world are [fleeting] as a horse, nothing will remain for thee. O girl, I have burned from grief over thee, Let me come and sit in thy father’s garden; So much shall I strike [the instrument], so much shall I sing, That my flesh shall melt like water and drop from my body. Awake or asleep, I have fallen at [the hem of] thy skirt. My wounds are many, Do not treat me ill. I shall die of thy love, Thou shalt see my corpse. I call, “Come, [my] love!”—the beloved makes no reply, [She has] fallen into sweet slumber, [she] will not even utter my name.