Second Opening

If the bud refuses to open before your lips in the meadow, that is fair: against the splendor of your beauty the whole meadow is a cramped little space. The one who adorned you head to toe with feigned indifference can teach my heart that same art of aloofness. Lovers usually beg pardon for the cruelty they suffer; but whatever wrong you do, it is you who must beg my pardon. Your coquetry could be met with my own indifference, yet my heart will not leave me alone. What can I do? Love is a curse. You are itching for a fight, your glance makes that plain; you thirst for blood, your pretended carelessness gives it away. Even your scowling out of coyness lifts the grief from my heart; the knot in your frown is what unties my every knotted sorrow. It is not only longing for your arrow that knots my heart; the steel of your sword has left blisters all over it too. You have said my rival speaks rightly about me; but that is a rightness standing at the very border of wrong. If my crime is wanting you, then there are countless sinners; why draw so sharp a line between mere desire and love? From the table of my grief no dish ever comes twice, for the mother of my fortune gives birth only to the rare and singular. If weeping tears the veil from my eyes, no wonder, for your glance is what unveils the workings of my heart. I owe so much to the sting of my sorrow upon heart and soul, for love of you has decorated my face with a brand. The point of repeating these openings is to display your beauty; like the sun, each day it shines in a different land.