Number 22

My dark-hearted beloved has a face the color of tulips; tight-natured like a bud, and narrow-eyed too. Those weary eyes are like something sick, and each flirtatious glance carries a hint of limp and weakness. My love, enough with all this cruelty; everyone you look at has a reputation and honor to guard. I am always in a rush to be with you, even though on your side there is only delay. You are so hard-hearted, yes; you could be patient if you wanted, for there is stone inside you. Your two eyebrows are shaped like a bow, and every glance within them is a sharp poplar arrow. Why do you aim bow and arrow straight at me? Is there some greater war still left between us? When your tongue starts moving to make excuses, you would say one lame man is leaning on another. Whoever takes their color from your face has green freshness, a smiling mouth, and rosy cheeks, like a flower. I said my body is moaning in pain; you said: what is wrong with it? Bless it, it wails as sweetly as a harp!